The Endless Epic
by vicodin-vixens
Summary: A House/Wilson WIP of endless proportions. Bear with us, the muses speak slowly and occasionally in Japanese. We're translating as fast as we can. Warning: Slash and eventual smut. We own nothing but a box of finely sharpened no.2 pencils.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The original title to this was: The Amaranthine, Boundless, Ceaseless, Eternal, Everlasting, Interminable, Perpetual, Persisten, Relentless, Timeless Chronicles of Doctors House and Wilson. (Otherwise known as 'Greg and Jimmy Get It On'), but that title was too long.**

**This was written by the two of us chapter by chapter in different perspectives. Thing 1 has taken Wilson's perspective –first person (and the occasional Cuddy interlude). Thing 2 has taken House's perspective- third person (and the rare Team sidebar). This sounds more complicated than it is.**

**Take a chance. Read the story.**

**Reviews are love. We are Glory Whores. Praise us. We need it. It's our Vicodin.**

**Chapter One (Wilson)  
**  
Everyone has their own dirty little secrets, I suppose. Things they'd rather keep under lock and key and never want brought to light.

Take me, for example. I'm in love with my co-worker. Not that that fact in itself is unusual; people all over the world are harbouring secret crushes on people they work with- many develop relationships.

No, see, the truly secretive part is who my co-worker is. And even more so than that is the way he is.

Dr. Gregory House.

He is sarcastic, insolent, egotistical and insufferable. And that's on a good day. But he is also brilliant, determined and damned good-looking. And though he would rather stick needles in his eyes than ever admit to it, I know, I know that deep down, he really does care for people.

I have been his co-worker and best friend for many years, but somewhere during that time, the line between friendship and love has become slightly blurred. Oh, let's face it, the line has disappeared altogether.

And now, I have been subject to living with him, which for me, is an exquisite torture and a test of self-control. He is unabashed about parading around the apartment in his boxer shorts, has no qualms about invading my personal space and there have been times when I have wanted nothing more than to press him up against the wall and kiss him until that smug expression vanishes from his face.

I should know better than to fall for someone like House, I really should. Then again, look at my track record- three failed marriages and dozens of ruined relationships- apparently, it seems I do not know any better.

But maybe House could be the one to change all that…yeah, right. I can just imagine the look on his face if I ever told him. I came close once, you know, to telling him.

It was during one of our after-work drink-a-thons we occasionally have. I had had a few too many, which isn't really like me at all. But he was sitting so close and smelled so good; his jeans were tight and they looked like they'd been worn a hundred times and I could just see myself stretching out a hand to rub his thigh and test the softness of the denim. Instead though, I kept my hands occupied with my drinks.

He turned to call the waitress for another round and watching him, I got the irresistible urge to just come out and tell him.

"House," I said, polishing off my drink and slamming it down on the table a bit harder than I intended.

He faced me and arched an eyebrow, a good sign he was paying attention.

"I have something to tell you."

He leaned closer across the table and began shelling peanuts onto the floor.

"Is it important?" he asked, eager to be part of some conspiracy.

"Poshibly." I said, then shook my head, trying to force the right words out of my mouth.

"Pissably."

House threw his head back and laughed; a deep, rich sound which pleased me. Then he placed a very warm hand on my knee and I had to bite back a groan.

"Wilson. You. Are. Drunk."

I managed a half-smile and a nod, trying not to think about his hand still resting on my leg. Maybe if I bounced my knee a bit, the movement would cause his hand to slide up my leg to the spot I so desperately wanted to feel his hand. Then again, maybe he would remove his hand altogether. I definitely did not want that.

Ok, so I obviously wasn't doing a good job of not thinking about his hand. The waitress brought our drinks and I took a grateful swallow.

"Last round," he said, "What do you want to tell me?"  
Here it was. The moment of truth.

"House, I…"

Deep breath.

"Ok, well…what I'm trying to say is…"

Another drink.

"Well, I might, I think….I love."

Pause.

"Yeeesss?" He drawled, and I watched his fingers twirl the straw in his drink.

"I love."

Fuck. I couldn't do it.

"I love raspberry ripple ice cream."

I folded my arms on the table and buried my face in them. Raspberry ripple? Seriously? I couldn't come up with a better ice cream flavour? I know I'll be hearing about this for the rest of my life. I could hear the smirk in his voice.

"No kidding? I'm more of a mint chocolate chip kinda guy."

He struggled to his feet and limped out the door. I watched his ass as he left before realizing he had stuck me with the bill. Again.

House might be an arrogant ass, but man…what an ass.

~*~*~

Living with House this past little while has allowed me some justification of the observations I have made about him. The number one being that the man is a slob.

He says he doesn't understand what he's taken to calling my 'masculine beauty regimen', but I keep telling him that it takes a real effort to look good.

On the other hand, House seems to be able to roll straight out of bed and into some clothes that might or might not have been lying on his floor for two days. And he still looks good. I can't even begin to tell you how irritating that is.

That's not to say that his shirts couldn't stand to see the hot side of an iron, but all in all, the dishevelled look seems to suit him. Damn House and his rumpled good looks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 (House)**

House lay in bed with his eyes closed, awake but not yet willing to admit it, listening to the sounds of Wilson's morning bathroom ritual.

House knew it by heart. Even if he'd never actually seen it performed.

At precisely 6 a.m. Wilson entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Once the shower was running, he would pee (because God Forbid someone should hear him. Gross.)

At 6:03 Wilson would get into the shower (the curtain rings scrape) where he would shampoo and condition his hair and exfoliate with a loofah and body wash. (House knew this because where once existed a single bar of Dial and a bottle of Head and Shoulders, a cornucopia of tropical-scented crap had taken up residence.)

At 6:15 the shower was turned off. Wilson would towel off (He never left puddles. Too easy for some poor cripple to slip and fall. Isn't that _thoughtful_?), flush the toilet (so _considerate_), wipe down the mirror (faint streaking), lather his face (Gilette), and proceed to give himself a close and meticulous shave. (No stubbly patches missed in haste, never an asymmetrical sideburn, never a bloody bit of toilet paper stuck to a cheek. And House had looked. _Really _looked.)

Wilson would then moisturize (sunblock, House's crippled ass!), deodorize (Gilette again), and apply a tasteful amount of a softly masculine aftershave. (For some perversely paranoid reason Wilson had not left this in the bathroom and House had yet to determine which one it was. But he could smell it. Everywhere.)

At 6:30 Wilson would divest himself of unwanted nose and ear hair (the soft hum of a trimmer) and pluck his eyebrows. (House had found the tweezers hidden in a bottle of Centrum. Completely amateur hour. Like he wouldn't go through all of Wilson's pills anyway.)

At 6:35 teeth were brushed (the gentle buzz of an absurdly expensive and retardedly complicated electric toothbrush), flossed (cinnamon-flavored floss. Who _actually_ flossed anyway?), and all traces of morning-breath gargled away. (Wilson maintained a vigilant level of minty freshness at all times.)

And finally at 6:40 began The Main Event. The blow-drying. From 6:40 to 7 a.m. Without fail.

But not today.

Today Wilson was going to have to drip-dry just like everybody else.

House opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows, waiting. Waiting for Wilson's cry of shock and outrage.

It never came.

What he got instead was the deep thrum of Wilson's trusty diffuser, whatever the hell that was.

Something had gone hideously wrong.

House swung his long legs out of bed, grabbed his cane, and hobbled determinedly towards the bathroom.

He threw open the door to reveal a towel-clad Wilson clutching his heart with one hand and a large black blow-dryer with the other, a look of petrified shock on his face.

"Jesus, House! Have you lost your mind?!"

House pointed to the blow-dryer. "I hid that."

Wilson looked at him incredulously. "You scared me to death!"

"You're fine. I hid that."

"I found it."

"I hid it in a box under my bed marked "Porn & Sheet Music."

"I was in the mood for bukkake and Beethoven. Sue me."

House gave Wilson a hard look, then turned on his heel and gimped in the direction of the kitchen. "Hurry up. My breakfast isn't going to make itself."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three (Wilson)**

I make breakfast for him for two main reasons. The first (though you will never get me to admit this to him) is that I actually enjoy cooking for House. The simple domesticity of it pleases me. God, House would have a field day with that one, wouldn't he?

The second reason is because he enjoys it. I'm good at cooking, yes. I know that already. But House eats with such gusto and makes every bite seem almost orgasmic and how can I not appreciate that?

Of course, I tell him that I only include him in my breakfast feasts because he is there and I would be making pancakes for myself anyway, so what's an extra stack (or two, or three?).

But the truth of the matter is that if I didn't cook for House, I would subsist entirely on peanut butter toast and soggy Corn Flakes.

So, he's reading the morning paper and sipping his coffee at the table as usual. Every few seconds he'll rustle the paper or bang his cup down on the table and I know he's getting impatient.

It's only a matter of time before he starts hitting the cutlery on the table and chanting "I want pancakes! I want pancakes!" like the petulant child he really is. I like to keep my back turned to him, only because I know it will serve to irritate him further.

And the ridiculously frilly apron I wear, though it humours him (because he bought it thinking it would annoy me) is really protecting my shirt and tie from splatter. He doesn't know it, but the joke is on him. I like frills.

Okay, not really. But I do like to keep tidy.

Anyway, I'm just about to dish up the first several pancakes, which are making my mouth water just looking at them (kind of like House does), when I suddenly feel something hard rap me in the backside.

At first I thought House must have whacked me with his cane (he has been known to do that on occasion, so it wouldn't surprise me). But no, it's hanging on the back of his chair, unmoving.

House's hand however….

"Did you just slap my ass?" I ask incredulously.

His blue eyes flash dangerously and I feel my breath catch.

"Hand spasm." he says simply, though the look in those incredible blue eyes of his dares me to challenge the validity of his statement.

"It could be neurological. You should have Foreman take a look at it" Those are the words in my head, but I'm having difficulty un-sticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth. It seems as though I have no saliva at the moment.

Instead, I have to content myself with turning my back to House, while he mutters something about bacon, and try not to think of his hand on my ass. And if I turned around to face him, to indulge in his conversational banter (he doesn't play by the rules anyway) there would be no concealing my arousal. Apron or no apron.

Throughout the remainder of the day I kept replaying the scene over and over again in my mind. It was a very slow day at work, which I guess is a good thing, but unfortunately for me, it gave me more than enough time to try and analyze things.

House smacked my ass.

He also walked in on me after my shower a few days ago, but I figure that was due to his frustration of not being able to deprive me of my hairdryer.

Still, as I stood there wearing nothing but a towel, with my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my head, and all I could think was 'Thank god he didn't come in while I was still in the shower.'

I had been adding an extra step in my shower routine as of late. It's rather embarrassing, but House had gotten me so worked up, and it's not as if I really could go up to him and say 'You started it, you finish it.' Especially since I'm certain he's not aware that he is affecting me that way.

So yeah, I've had to resort to the old familiar stand-by as a means of relieving some of the sexual tension I've been facing. And god, if House had have walked into the bathroom some five minutes earlier, he would've caught me red-handed. So to speak.

But back to the ass slap.

There was no doubt about that, just as there was no denying the fact that he did it on purpose. Question is: Why?

My first of many highly irrational thoughts is that he somehow found out that I secretly have feelings for him. He is, after all, a master diagnostician and usually has no trouble at all in reading people.

But I'm quite certain that if he did know, he would say something. House isn't likely to keep quiet over something like that. And if he weren't taking every given opportunity to lord it over me, then surely I would find my bags packed and waiting on the stoop when I arrived home.

Home. Now there's a funny thought. I guess I've come to think of his place as home.

Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh, right. The ass slap. Did I mention that I rather enjoyed it? Yes, well, that's besides the point.

I was trying to figure out the method behind the madness. And trust me; trying to find out why House does anything is enough to drive a person insane.

So, I'd pretty much resigned myself to never know why he did it and chalk it up as a one-time lapse in his sanity. God knows House has had enough of those in his life.

I would just have to put it behind me and carry out my crush in secret as I have been. Though I wouldn't be upset in the least if House decided to get all touchy-feely with me in the near future. That is about as likely to happen as Cuddy getting a sex change.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four (House)**

House sat at his kitchen table pretending to read the paper and enjoying both the warmth of the early morning sunshine and the smell of Wilson's macadamia nut pancakes.

All of which he was prepared to strenuously deny if confronted. Greg House didn't do domestic.

But he did do pancakes.

Did pancakes _really_ take this long?

House cleared his throat and turned the page noisily. Wilson glared at him over his shoulder. "They're coming."

"I'm hungry."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Perish the thought." He walked over and tipped four perfectly round, golden-brown, silver-dollar pancakes from the skillet he was carrying onto House's plate. "Here. Eat."

House looked down at them critically. "No syrup?"

"Fine. Starve." Wilson reached for the plate.

House snatched it away. "I'll suffer."

"I thought you might. You're a brave little soldier, House." Wilson turned back to the stove and resumed pancake production.

As soon as his back was turned House shoved an entire pancake into his mouth and gave a little groan of comestible bliss. _So_ good. Not that cold pizza didn't have merit in it's own right, but still.

House looked over at his friend flipping pancakes in his frilly apron. That particular gag had fallen somewhat short of the mark. Wilson actually seemed to like it. Well, if not like it, than at least not be irritated by it, which had kind of been the point in the first place.

Maybe he should check Wilson's estrogen levels.

He watched, mouth full of pancake, as Wilson puttered around his kitchen, humming some unrecognizable tune under his breath. House smiled in spite of himself. That apron was sort of cute.

Christ, maybe he should check his own estrogen levels.

He shoveled the last of his breakfast into his mouth and waved his empty coffee mug in the air. "Morumph."

Wilson set his own plate down across the table and sat. "You'd like more, I take it?"

House responded by snatching two pancakes off Wilson's plate and waving his mug pointedly.

"Oh. Let me. Please, don't get up."

Wilson stood up with a sigh and returned a moment later with the coffee pot. "I expect a tip. 15% is customary," he said, refilling House's cup.

House finished chewing and swallowed. "I had to ask for my refill. That's going to cost you."

"My apologies." Wilson turned to replace the coffee-pot on the counter, and, on an impulse House couldn't begin to understand or qualify, House reached out and gave Wilson a playful slap on the ass. Stupid apron.

Wilson spun around. "Did you just _slap my ass_?"

Adrenalin coursing through his body, heart racing like it hadn't since before the infarction, House's gaze betrayed nothing. "Hand spasm," he said simply, then rose and grabbed his cane off the back of the chair. "Bacon would be nice tomorrow," he said, and limped from the room.

*~*~*~*~

_"It was a fine idea at the time, now it's a brilliant mistake."_

Oh, piss off, Costello. Who asked you anyway?

House yanked the ear buds out of his ears and threw the ipod on his desk. He scrubbed his hand down his face and sighed. Maybe coffee would help.

He grabbed his cane and lurched to his feet, half-way to the coffee maker he realized there was no coffee to be had. He'd chased the children off before any of them had had a chance to make a pot. Shit.

He could go down to the cafeteria for a paper cup of their finest sludge, but that increased his odds of bumping into Wilson about three to one, and until he got a better handle on his sudden and inexplicable gayness, that was better avoided. Besides, he'd have to pay for it himself.

The cafeteria was definitely out.

Great. House made terrible coffee.

He toyed briefly with paging Cameron back from the clinic to do it, but ultimately that was a short term gain, long term loss. She would want to know _why_. He'd already caught her giving him a _look_when he'd purged the office of wide-eyed innocents that morning. Like she could smell emotional turmoil. No. It was better that Cameron stay right where she was, up to her elbows in runny noses and STDs. He could make his own damn coffee.

Once everything was percolating he headed back to his desk to brood. House lowered himself into his chair, took a deep breath and two Vicodin. Enough screwing around. Time to figure out what the hell his mutinous brain was up to. A differential like any other differential. Start with the first symptom.

He'd made a choice.

He'd slapped Wilson on the ass, with nary a football in sight, and he'd liked it.

More than like it.

It felt good.

It felt _right_.

Proprietary.

Possessive.

And _that_ felt good. Felt right. To claim Wilson as his in such a physical way, after years of being forced, against his will and better judgment, to share. With wives. With girlfriends. With colleagues. With patients. House hated to share what was his. And he'd always thought of Wilson as his.

But that didn't make him gay, right? Just selfish. Selfishly gay? Gaily selfish? God.

House rummaged in his desk, looking for something to do with his hands. He located his yo-yo (a gift from Wilson) and gave it a few experimental throws.

Nobody woke up gay at 46. Which meant neither did he. Apparently this had been a long time coming.

House twisted the yo-yo into some semblance of the Chinese Puzzle and watched it swing.

So.................. What then? He was so repressed he forgot he liked cock? Not likely. Blow-jobs behind the barracks would have been a great way to humiliate his father as a teenager. No way he would have missed that opportunity if he'd thought he was even remotely that way inclined. The most experimental thing he'd done sexually in college had been Cuddy and, to date, the sight of Chase in a pair of jeans had only produced the vaguest detached appreciation, the same as when Cameron wore Channel No.5.

But, of course, everybody lies.

House threw the yo-yo across the room in frustration. Christ. Maybe this time it was lupus. Just as he was getting up to retrieve the exiled yo-yo, Cuddy burst into his office in a froth of bureaucratic irritation. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

"Questioning my sexuality," House deadpanned.

Cuddy gave him a disbelieving look. "Right. Why aren't you in the clinic?"

"I am in the clinic."

"Cameron is in the clinic."

"To-may-to, to-ma-to. We both look cute in a vest."

"You can't send a proxy to do your clinic duty!"

"But, Mom!"

"Get down there!" Without waiting for a response she turned and strode purposefully out of the office, heels clicking rhythmically down the corridor.

House snorted. Yeah. Like that was gonna happen. But clearly a change of venue was in order. He'd never figure out his place on the Kinsey scale with Cuddy on the warpath. Time to get creative.

Twenty minutes later found House hobbling frantically down a crowded corridor toward an equally crowded elevator.

One little detour past the third-floor vending machine and now he was fucked.

Christ. Was there anything in the world more undignified than a cripple in a hurry? His leg was on fire and he knew he was lurching like a punch-drunk giraffe as he closed the last few feet between himself and sweet escape. He watched the numbers count down as he skidded to a halt in front of the elevator doors.

6.

5.

4...

"House!"

Shit.

The elevator pinged. Lucky number 3.

Cursing the Sour Patch Kids in his hip pocket with a hatred normally only reserved for line-dancing and prop comics, House elbowed his way onto the elevator and hit the Door Close button sharply with his cane.

He watched through the closing doors as Wilson jogged down the hall toward the elevator, his face wearing the same look of frustrated confusion as everyone else.

The doors shut tightly and House hit the 'B.'

The occupants of the elevator began to whip themselves into a small frenzy.

"Hey! I wanted out on three!"

"So did I!"

"Me too!"

An older woman in a garish pink sweatsuit glared at House and reached toward the button panel. House rapped her knuckles with his cane and hit the Emergency Stop.

"Tough. Now you're taking the scenic route. Anyone who comes near this control panel is going to become very intimately acquainted, very quickly, with the end of my cane. Understand?"

There were grunts and nods of assent.

"Good." He hit the button and the elevator continued it's descent.

They rode in silence for a minute, then Sweatsuit raised her hand timidly.

"Yes?" House snapped.

Sweatsuit gulped audibly and stared at her shoes.

"Right. Anymore questions?"

No one moved, much less made a sound.

"Silence is golden..." sang House softly.

The elevator reached the basement with a gentle bump and the doors opened. House limped through them slowly, his leg already exacting it's revenge. The doors closed again behind him and he leaned against them gratefully. He allowed the pain to wash over him for a second, just breathing, really feeling it, then reached into his pocket for his pills. Two more, to take the edge off. Then he reached into the other pocket and pulled out his candy.

House ripped the bag open with his teeth and shook some into his hand.

Yellow. Ick. He threw the yellow one down the hall.

Green joined yellow.

He popped the remaining handful into his mouth. Ahh, red dye #40 and yellow #6. Totally worth it.

And then he realized. He'd left the fucking coffee on.

Shit.

Perfect.

Someone was going to have to turn it off.

House shifted his weight slightly and his thigh told him politely to get fucked.

Someone _else_ was going to have to turn it off.

And sooner rather than later.

If Cuddy had her panties in a bunch over a little creative interpretation of the clinic roster, than a fire, even a small one, would not bode well for his continued testicular health.

House pulled his cell phone out of his breast pocket and frowned at it, wishing he'd been a little less effective in scattering his underlings throughout the universe that morning.

Chase should be just outside of Ocean City by now, if he'd stuck to the route House had given him and was making good time, Cameron was still dispensing supportive kindness and Tylenol to the Great Unwashed, and Foreman was off doing whatever the hell it was that Foreman did when he was wasn't here disapproving of House.

Which left Wilson.

Best to make this quick then.

He punched in the number and the extension and waited for Wilson to answer.

It wasn't a long wait. "Dr. James Wilson."

"Wilson, I-"

"What the hell is going on with you?!"

A little shrill. Not a great sign. Not much he could do about it at present, either. He'd worry about it later.

"I need you to go into my office," said House calmly.

"I need you to tell me what exactly you were doing sprinting down the 3rd Floor corridor!"

"You flatter me. It was hardly a sprint. Cripple, remember?"

He could hear Wilson take a deep breath and exhale slowly. House smirked. Wilson was counting to ten in his head. He loved it when he made Wilson do that. Ruffled feathers suited him.

"That's hardly the point," Wilson said very slowly and deliberately.

"What is the point?"

"House!"

So much for zen.

"Just go to my office."

Wilson sighed. "Why?"

"You'll know when you get there." Scorch has such a distinctive bouquet.

"Will I?"

"Yeah. Better hurry though. Time is a factor."

"What is going on?! Where are you?"

"Exactly where I need to be, don't worry."

"It's not _you_ I worry about."

"Yes, it is. And Wilson?"

"Yes?"

"GO! OFFICE! NOW!"

"I'm going! I'm going! What are-"

House hung up the phone and smiled. Crisis averted.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five (Wilson)**

It wasn't until my stomach rumbles that I realize I'm hungry. And for two very good reasons. The first, of course, is because after the 'ass-slap', I'd become too distracted to eat, and anyway, House had polished off the majority of the pancakes.

Secondly though, is because I've been sitting here, playing with paperclips and trying to analyze House's behaviour.

I've been wasting time! Holy crap! I've been spending entirely too much time with House if I've resorted to paperclip chains as a way to occupy my time.

For the moment, I forget about how House's hand on my ass made me feel, and instead focus on a region of my body slightly higher...my stomach. Food. Now. But not just any food.

If I've learned anything from my second wife, it's that chocolate cures all ailments. And if I've learned anything (useful) from House, it's that the third floor vending machine has the best selection of candy.

Besides, if I go down to the cafeteria, House will probably be there and not only will I have to pay for his lunch, but he'll eat half of mine as well. I'll still be hungry, and I'll end up watching him eat and wondering where else he can put his hands.

Third floor vending machine it is.

I'm thwarted, however, as I round the corner and see House hastily stuffing a lime-green package into his pocket. For a moment, I debate hiding from him, but as usual, he spots me.

Even from a distance, I can see his eyes widen and he takes off in....in a what? A sprint? His version of, anyway.

I look over my shoulder, baffled, and expecting to see Cuddy bearing down on him for avoiding clinic duty, but I'm alone in the hallway.

"House!" I call out, forgetting the sought after chocolate. Why on earth would House be running from _me?_

He can be determinedly quick for a cripple, I'll give him that much. He made it to the elevator in record time. Weird. Then again, this is House.

He probably nicked the money from me and thought I was on to him. Like I'm concerned about a buck and a half when he owes me hundreds.

Anyway, back to the office I go, and I'm not in there five minutes when the phone rings.

"Dr. James Wilson." Doctor. Even after all these years, I still love the sound of that- Dr. James Wilson.

Only, it's House, who offers no explanation whatsoever and instead rambles on about me having to go to his office.

"Go! Office! Now!" he snarls and disconnects.

I look at the phone for answers, but it's as obtuse as House, and I'm worried that if I don't check his office, the whole hospital may explode. Knowing House like I do, that really doesn't seem too far-fetched.

As soon as I open the door, I know. He's left the damned coffee on. I rush over and turn it off, and marvel over how antiquated the machine is, that it doesn't have an auto-off switch. It looks like it hasn't been cleaned in weeks, either.

I spend a minute debating on whether or not I should wash it, but in the end decide it will be easier (and safer) if I just went out and bought him a new one. And only tell Cameron how to operate it.

It isn't until I'm signing the receipt (for a new coffee-maker and a Hershey's bar) that I come to the realization that questioning House's motivation is beyond useless.

I need to be questioning my own.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six (House)**

Besides, he had bigger fish to fry.

Bigger, gayer fish.

House limped down the hall, wincing a little with the strain.

Yup. That was the plan. Explore his newly discovered desire to become the fourth Mrs. Wilson, and find a chair. Not in that order.

He pushed open the doors to the Morgue and took a surreptitious look around.

Blissful solitude. A room refreshingly free of the living.

And apparently completely devoid of chairs.

Whatever. He'd make do.

House shut the door behind him and gimped over to the stainless steel table in the centre of the room, then gingerly hoisted himself onto it. He swung his legs up carefully, laid his cane down beside him, folded his hands behind his head and stretched out.

Much better.

He could stay happily M.I.A. in here for hours and no-one would find him.

Well.

Wilson might. If he went looking. Which was precisely what had brought House down here in the first place.

Wilson.

He should have seen it coming. Everyone else probably had. Except Cameron. She'd stick forks in her eyes to avoid seeing it if she had to.

It.

How he felt about Wilson. That he wanted to feel Wilson.

House sighed. What was so fucking special about Wilson anyway?

So he was good-looking. So what? Chase was good-looking. And Chase had an accent. No contest there.

Wilson was nothing special.

He wore the same ugly tie every Wednesday.

He drove a Volvo.

He ate lentils and listened to talk radio.

He folded his underwear. (House knew this because Wilson was currently doing the laundry at his place and was, thus, folding House's underwear too. Into creepy little squares.)

He chewed on pen lids and wore a pocket protector.

There were a million little reasons why James Wilson was no more than a pleasantly dull, youngish oncologist from New Jersey.

Except that he wasn't.

He was Wilson.

And there **was** something that set him apart.

House.

He smirked at that. In his mind's eye he could see Wilson, hands on hips, glaring at him. ("They only thing special about me is _you_. I see. Thank-you so much. That's not offensive at all.") But that didn't make it any less true.

Wilson stayed.

He bitched, he moaned, he whined, he complained, he guilted, he manipulated, he suffered, he enabled, he threatened.

But he stayed.

And he gave, _almost_, as good as he got.

According to Occam's Razor the simplest explanation had to be the right one.

It didn't look like this could get any simpler.

There was no denying how good it felt to touch Wilson that morning, even briefly.

Like closing a circuit.

Like solving a puzzle. With a hard-on.

House grinned. It was time for a clinical trial.

Tonight he'd put the moves on Wilson.

And either 1+1 would equal hot monkey sex or he'd be fucked in the least fun sense of the word.

Risk versus reward.

But faint heart never boinked fair Wilson.

Faint heart never even made it to first base.

Faint heart was for pussies.

And with any luck, if he fell on his face, Wilson's ridiculous well of forgiveness would drown a little sexual harassment like so many unwanted kittens.

Suddenly the phone rang and House nearly fell off the table.

_"Mmmbop, ba duba dop..."_

House righted himself and wrestled it out of his pocket. "What?!"

"Is it East Belfast Road or West Belfast Road that I want? You've not written it down."

"You haven't even picked it up yet?!"

"There was traffic on the parkway and your directions are crap," said Chase indignantly. "So which is it? East or West?"

"West."

"Fine. What am I picking up anyway?"

"Nothing to worry your pretty little head about."

"Right." Chase sounded skeptical. "I'm not going to get arrested, am I?"

"That depends on you. Now hurry up. I need you back by 5."

Before Chase could reply House had hung up.

It was good to be king.

He settled back on the table in the closest approximation of comfort he could manage and yawned.

A nap sounded like an excellent idea.

Rest up and dazzle Wilson with his incredible stamina.

Besides, he had time to kill.

House set the alarm on his watch for 4:30 and closed his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 3 1/2 Hours Later ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. _

House opened one eye and then the other, trying to remember where the hell he was.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. _

Right. The morgue.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. _

What time was it?

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. _

He looked at his watch and turned off the alarm.

4:33.

Perfect. Almost quittin' time.

House negotiated his way off the table with some effort and popped two more Vicodin for his trouble.

Christ.

He cracked his neck and headed back upstairs.

Ten minutes later House pushed open the doors to his office. The lights in the conference room were out and the chairs were neatly tucked under the table. Cameron had been there. He limped heavily over to his desk and sat down.

Ahhhh. Lumbar support.

House glanced at the clock.

4:45.

Where the hell was Chase? He'd sent him to the boardwalk not the moon.

Jesus. If you want something done right, do it yourself. Or get a better class of lackeys.

He'd just picked up the phone to find out what exactly had gone wrong when the man in question struggled through the door carrying a large box.

House beckoned him forward frantically. "Gimme."

"What on Earth is in here anyway? It weighs next to nothing." Chase set the box down on the desk carefully.

Not answering the question, House gave Chase a hard look. "What the hell took you so long?"

In response Chase shot him a look that could have frozen mercury.

"If you must know I spent an hour and a half stuck on the Ocean Drive Bridge thanks to a jack-knifed tractor trailer. I also got a speeding ticket on the way home trying to make it back here for 5."

House, busy opening the box, didn't look up.

"You owe me fifty dollars." said Chase.

No response.

Chase rolled his eyes. "So, come on. What is it then?"

House removed the contents of the box triumphantly, scattering styrofoam peanuts everywhere.

It was a record.

"A record?!" Chase squawked. "I spent all day on the road for a record?!"

House glared at him. "No. Not for 'a record.' You spent all day on the road for an original issue, 1965, _'Hoodoo Man Blues'_ by Junior Wells."

"An old record then."

"Philistine."

"Whatever. You still owe me fifty bucks."

Wilson chose that moment to walk through the door. "I've missed something," he said, looking around at the styrofoam snowstorm. Then he noticed the record in House's hands.

"Hey, is that _'Hoodoo Man'_ ? I thought you had to go all the way to Ocean City to pick that up?"

House smirked at Chase. "I found a way around it."

"So are you ready then?" Wilson asked.

House took a deep breath and waggled his eyebrow suggestively. "Ready and willing."

Wilson looked at him strangely, brow furrowed. "Alright."

House shrugged into his jacket and backpack, and stuck the record under his arm. Wilson immediately took it from him.

"I'll carry that. You paid enough for it, it'd be nice if it made it all the way to the car in one piece."

House said nothing but smiled slightly as Wilson held the door. He looked over at Chase who was bent over picking up peanuts.

Every clinical trial needs a control group. Just in case.

House stepped behind Chase and gave his upturned ass a resounding slap before limping quickly past Wilson, out the opened door and down the hall.

Chase straightened up, eyes like saucers, and gaped at Wilson.

Who gaped right back.

"Did he-"

"Yeah."

They stared at each other for a minute, shocked, when House's voice broke the silence.

"Wilson! C'mon!" he yelled from somewhere in the direction of the elevator.

Wilson turned abruptly and stalked down the hall to where House was waiting.

"Care to explain that little piece of insanity?!"

"Purely scientific, I assure you."

Wilson looked unconvinced, to say the least. "I see. And?!" he snapped.

House looked Wilson dead in the eye. And held it. "And now I know the answer."

The elevator arrived and the doors opened. House broke the gaze and limped forward. "What's for dinner tonight? I'm starved."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven (Wilson)**

I spend the next half hour or so setting up the new coffee machine in House's office and giving instructions to Cameron. When I explain to her the reasons for me not wanting him to touch it, she laughs and throws out some comment that makes it plainly evident that she is still attracted to him.

In that instant, I feel a sharp surge of jealousy knife through my body and I want to stamp my feet and tell her 'You can't have him! He's mine! I saw him first!'

Instead, however, I mumble something about getting back to work, and as I leave I watch her straightening up the office while humming softly to herself.

Back in the sanctuary of my own office, I pull a couple of patient files with the full intention of reviewing them, but House once again pervades my thoughts.

What on earth could I possibly hope to gain out of a relationship with House?

Conceding the fact that it just might be the best sex I've ever had.

And exactly what would make me think that, I've no idea because I've never even so much as entertained a homosexual thought until now.

Still, I wonder how it would be to kiss him - to feel his stubble scratch my face. What would his mouth taste like? And what would _he_ tastelike? What would it be like to feel the hardness of his lean body pressed against mine, or be touched by his large hands?

Now that I've effectively destroyed any possibility of getting any work done today, I sit back and allow my thoughts, though I try to steer them away from sex, because nothing good can come from arousal at work.

The more I try to understand my attraction to House, the more I'm convinced I never will. It's just the way it is and I'll have to accept it.

I wonder again what he would say if he knew.

And I decide that the worst that could happen is ridicule.

And I've been there many times before, so it's not like that would be anything new.

And if I know House at all, it won't be long before he figures it out himself, so it's probably for the best if I just tell him myself.

Only two questions: when and how.

There's no way I can just walk into his office and casually say 'House, I think I love you. Shall we go have sex in the supply cupboard now?'

Also, I can't ask him out on a date, because by definition, we've been dating for years already.

Obviously I can't muster up enough courage when I'm drinking, because somehow I just end up rambling about ice cream. I never was any good at this part of relationships.

Maybe I should just wait and let him figure it out after all.

When I realize that it's time to go home for the day, I feel a little jolt of nervousness and decide that sooner, rather than later, I'll have to tell House.

I'm still pondering my options when I walk through his office doors fifteen minutes later and see the floor littered with styrofoam pieces and Chase looking thoroughly harassed.

Apparently, House has sent him on a cross-country mission.

For a record.

But not just any record - _Hoodoo Man Blues._ House has been lusting after this particular album for months.

The grin on House's face is infectious. House doesn't truly smile often enough, but when he does...wow.

So he'll definitely be in a good mood tonight. Score a point in my favour. Maybe he'll be more receptive to my confession.

"Ready?" I ask, feeling foolish, grinning like an idiot, but I can't stop myself.

"Ready and willing." House replies, looking me straight in the eyes and if I didn't know better, I'd say that remark carried sexual overtones.

But then something happens to make me doubt myself all over again.

Just as we're ready to leave, House slaps Chase's ass while he's bending over picking up the styrofoam.

Then he just walks out as if that were an everyday thing.

Or at least a Tuesday thing, since he started the day slapping my ass.

('Mine! He should only be slapping my ass!' my petulant inner child cries)

How do I know he hasn't been limping around slapping unsuspecting asses all day? I never did find out what he was up to in the third floor corridor...

Chase looks at me, an expression of shock on his face that I can feel mirrored upon my own.

"Did he-" Chase's voice sounds amazed beyond words.

"Yeah." Is all I can manage, and I can only hope that it didn't sound as gruff and as disappointed as I feel.

I hurry off when I hear House calling me from the elevator.

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Care to explain that little piece of insanity?"

He simply shrugs, "Purely scientific, I assure you."

"And?"

"And now I know the answer."

_'The answer to what?' _I want to ask, but House seems to be in one of his enigmatic moods, so I don't press.

He's silent the entire elevator ride down and I can't help but examine him in profile, and I have strangest urge to slide my tongue along his collarbone.

Tearing my eyes away, I walk slightly behind House on the way out of the hospital and towards my car. I make sure my hands are always busy so I can fight the desire to touch him.

"Rough day?" House questions, folding himself into the passenger seat.

"Huh?" I'm startled out of my reverie, " Uh no. Well, kinda. Yeah, I guess." I know I'm stammering like an idiot, but I can't help it.

"Either it was or it wasn't. Not a difficult question."

I ignore him and turn on the radio. He reprograms all my favourite radio stations, but I grit my teeth and allow him to do it. We drive home in an unusually tense silence.

Once in the apartment, House busies himself with his latest musical acquisition and a glass of whisky, while I prepare dinner. This is a familiar scene and the comfort of it relaxes me somewhat.

I say somewhat, though, for tonight I feel the insane need to impress House. Which is ridiculous. And makes me nervous and dinner takes twice as long to prepare as it would any other night.

When dinner is on the table and there is still no sign of House in the kitchen, I call out to him to let him know it's ready.

"Coming?"

"Hopefully later. Let's eat first." he grins as he limps into the kitchen, sits down and starts to eat.

Again, I feel my face contort itself into a mask of confusion and I stand there awkwardly until he kicks out a chair and motions for me to sit down.

He eats with all his usual gusto, and I've suddenly lost my appetite. I've spent what seems like hours preparing chicken Parmesan and all I can do is push it around my plate and try not to look at House as he eats.

Only, I choose exactly the wrong moment to look up and see him lick his lips, but then he's looking at me. Watching me watching him.

Shit.

Not quickly enough, I lower my eyes back to my plate, and wonder if it's possible that my face is the same shade as the tomato sauce.

"Pass the salt." House mumbles around a mouthful of food, and as I do, his fingers encircle my wrist.

Startled, I look up to meet his eyes and they're _so_ blue and then I realize he's still holding my wrist and I'm getting hard from just that alone.

I drop the salt, which clatters to the tabletop and watch the smirk on his face as I push away and abruptly leave the kitchen.

I head for the bathroom, where I splash cold water on my face and look up to the mirror, which reveals flushed cheeks.

"Idiot." I mutter to my reflection, and he offers no help at all.

"Wilson!" I hear House yell and it sounds like he's in pain, so I forget about chastising myself and rush out to see what's wrong.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight (House)**

Something was up with Wilson.

And whatever was up now was seriously going to affect getting anything else up later.

He'd barely said ten words since they left the hospital, and now he was in the kitchen cooking with a fervor that would frighten an Iron Chef.

He hadn't even complained when House had reset all of his radio stations on the ride home.

DEF-CON 3 in Wilsonland.

CRASH!

"Dammit!"

Wilson had dropped another pan.

DEF-CON 2.

House took a long swallow of his single malt and turned up the volume on the turntable.

Wilson had until eight o'clock to get over it without help.

Twenty minutes later Wilson emerged from the kitchen. He was sweaty and flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead. The pink apron was sporting what appeared to be a large arterial blood spatter, and one of his oven-mitts (When exactly had House begun living in a place that contained _oven-mitts_?) was smoking.

It was all House could do not to hump his leg. Stupid goddamn apron.

"Dinner's ready," said Wilson flatly. He pulled off the smoldering mitt and pushed his damp hair up off his face. House watched silently from his place on the couch, expression inscrutable.

"What?" Wilson grumbled. He pulled off the other oven-mitt and divested himself of the soiled apron. "Cooking is messy, okay?!" He stared at the floor for a minute, then looked up again, almost defiantly. "Well? Lord knows I didn't spend the last hour cooking so I could eat alone. Are you coming?"

House tipped back the last of his whiskey and set the glass down on the coffee table.

"Hopefully later. But let's eat first." He smirked and limped past Wilson into the kitchen. Time to get this show on the road.

He sat down heavily in his chair and waited to be served.

Wilson had not yet moved from his place in the door-frame.

House banged the table. "Hello? Hungry man here."

Wilson looked at him, startled. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

Within seconds House was enthusiastically tucking in to an excellent chicken something or other with reddish sauce, while watching Wilson slide his chicken something or other around on his plate while avoiding any and all eye contact with House.

So, something was still up then.

If he'd lost a Baldie he'd be mopey. And sniffly. Not whatever the hell this was. Which meant all the Chemo Kids must be present and accounted for.

If he was pissed off he'd be cleaning. (House's apartment had never been so dust free as the day Wilson's car had been keyed in the parking lot.) If he was pissed off at House he'd have called him an ass by now and House would be able to see his face in the oven.

This was entirely different.

This was fidgeting, flustered, manic, messy.......weirdness.

Uncharted territory. Here be monsters.

House shoveled another forkful of food into his mouth and stared intently across the table. Wilson glanced up suddenly and immediately looked away, red-faced, when he saw House already looking.

Hmmm.

Interesting.

This was weirdness that was beginning to look a lot more like opportunity. Truth be told, House had never really considered the possibility that Wilson might refuse him. There had never been any precedent for refusal.

But he had thought he might have to work for it.

Maybe not.

House smiled as he chewed.

No time like the present to find out.

"Pass the salt."

Once again looking startled, Wilson grabbed the salt next to him and reached across the table to pass it.

House grabbed his wrist and held it tightly.

Wilson gave a squeak of surprise and dropped the shaker. It crashed noisily to the table, spilling salt everywhere.

House, unfazed, continued to hold on.

Wilson looked helplessly at his captive hand and then at House, who held his gaze for a moment, then let go.

Wilson fled the room so fast he knocked over his chair. House heard the bathroom door shut and the faint sound of running water.

DEF-CON 1.

House grinned and took another bite of his chicken.

He was SO gettin' some tonight.

He finished his dinner and waited for Wilson to return.

After fifteen minutes and three-quarters of Wilson's dinner, House was getting impatient. Wilson could hide in the bathroom like some disgraced sorority girl at a frat party on someone else's time. And since he wasn't about to spend an hour at the bathroom door trying to negotiate a peaceful surrender, he'd do the next best thing.

Fake an injury.

"Wilson!" House yelled, in what he hoped was a reasonably agonized voice, then settled back to await the flurry of compassion that he was sure was coming his way.

He wasn't disappointed.

Wilson skidded through the doorway less than a minute later.

"House! Are you alright?! What-" Wilson stopped short. "You're fine."

"And you're predictable."

"You are UNBELIEVABLE!"

"If by unbelievable you mean too good to be true, then yeah, I'd have to agree."

Wilson snorted in disbelief, but looked distinctly nervous.

"My milkshake certainly brings _you_ to the yard."

Wilson's eyes widened. "What are you... you can't... I-" he sputtered, trying for indignation and failing.

"Oh, give it up. I _know_."

"What d'you mean _you know_? You can't know anything! There's nothing _to_ know!"

"I know I make you tingle in your naughty place."

"You're crazy."

"Go on. Admit it. You'll feel better. Confession is good for the soul."

"Stop it."

"You want me."

"House!"

"Just say it."

"I'm not playing your ridiculous games."

"Who's playing? Say it."

Wilson threw up his hands. "Fine! You win! I want you, alright?! Are you happy now?!"

"Positively gay."

Wilson looked bewildered. "What?!"

House stood up and took a step towards him. "I said, _good_. _I'm glad._"

Wilson took a step backwards. "You're fucking with me."

House rolled his eyes. "Not yet. But if you'd stay still..."

"This is cruel even for you."

House took another step forward. Wilson took another one back.

"You're making me feel like the Big Bad Wolf here. Stay put."

House stepped closer. Wilson took a deep breath but stayed where he was.

"Much better. Now c'mere and give Daddy some sugar."

Wilson sighed. "You're mocking me."

"I'm not."

Wilson cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "This is you being sensitive?"

"Alright, so I'm mocking you a little. What did you expect?"

"I expected to go to my grave never having to reveal this hideously embarrassing piece of information."

"Hi, I'm Greg House. Have we met?"

Wilson scrubbed his hands over his face. "I have to go. I have to get out of here. Out of here and away from you. I'll find an hotel and come back for my stuff tomorrow. We'll just pretend this never happened, okay?"

House gaped at Wilson. "Christ! Are you really this stupid? How did you manage to get married three times?!"

Wilson looked at him blankly, shell-shocked.

"I'm telling you the feeling is mutual, you MORON!" House yelled.

Wilson took another step backwards and found himself pressed against the counter. House surged forward, cane clattering to the floor, forgotten. He grabbed Wilson's face and crashed their mouths together.

It was angry. And messy. And frantic. Tongues and teeth. Lust and need.

House could taste blood. He wasn't sure whose. It didn't matter.

His cock was painfully hard in his jeans, and he could feel Wilson, equally hard, pressed against his thigh.

As first kisses went, it was fucking awesome.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine (Wilson)**I come flying out of the bathroom, hoping he isn't hurt too badly and wondering what the hell he did in the first place. I have images of a fork impaled through the top of his hand, or a steak knife sticking out of his thigh (I can picture him using it to scratch with).

What I am not expecting, however, is House sitting back in his chair, limbs intact and looking for all the world like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.

"You're fine." I say, stating the obvious.

"And you're predictable."

Ok, so now the nervousness is making way for anger. Which comes naturally when dealing with House. "You are UNBELIEVABLE."

"If by unbelievable you mean too good to be true, then yeah, I'd have to agree." he says, and it's at that exact moment that I see something flicker in his eyes and I _know_ that he knows.

"Well, my milkshake certainly brings _you_ to the yard."

Yep. No getting around it. He definitely knows. I mutter something incomprehensible and try to sound exasperated, but I can't. Right now the nervousness hits me back with full force. He _knows._ And he's not going to let it go until I admit it. Oh, god...what have I gotten myself into?

The ridiculous semi-arguing goes back and forth for a few more minutes, but he won't drop it until I throw up my arms (this time exasperation does win) and tell him.

"Fine! You win! I want you, alright?! Are you happy now?!"

"Positively gay." he replies and nervousness once again takes a back seat, this time to confusion. "What?"

"I said _good. I'm glad."_

Well. I wasn't expecting that. But then again, this is House. I should learn to expect the unexpected. Then it hits me. He's joking.

"You're fucking with me."

"Not yet. But if you'd stay still.."

The confusion mounts. Then is replaced by a mixture of hurt and indignation. I expected taunting and ridicule, but this is just....too much.

"This is cruel even for you."

House has me backed up against the kitchen counter and he's telling me to stay still and though I am pissed beyond belief, something in his eyes compels me to obey him.

He says something about how he's _not_ mocking me and that he's being serious, but he certainly doesn't sound serious. I can't breathe. He's too close. And I just can't deal with both his proximity _and_ his parody of a come-on.

""I have to go. I have to get out of here. Out of here and away from you. I'll find an hotel and come back for my stuff tomorrow. We'll just pretend this never happened, okay?" I say, rubbing my face and half-hoping that when I open my eyes, I will find this is all just a dream.

House's jaw drops and he sputters some nonsense about how I ever managed to get married three times; at this point I'm not really listening, just hoping to escape without any further embarrassment.

"I'm telling you the feeling is mutual, you MORON!" He yells. Leave it to House to throw an insult in there.

From somewhere far away, I hear his cane fall to the floor, but it doesn't really register what's happening until I find myself pinned to the countertop by his weight, his hands on either side of my face, and then the brutal force of his mouth against mine.

It's unlike any other kiss I've ever experienced. What is usually slow and tender is fast and aggressive.

And I love it.

I think I must have moaned my surprise, but the sound seems to be absorbed by House's mouth.

Unbelievably, I can feel him, rock hard, and I know that he can feel me, too. Without any further conscious thought, I rotate my hips and suddenly we are pressed together and the friction is incredible.

He tastes faintly of whisky, but more like dinner. The dinner I made. Which absurdly makes me want him all the more.

All to soon, House drags his mouth away from mine, but his hands don't let go of my face. He draws back only far enough to look at me.

His eyes are lust clouded and his lips are wet. I don't think I've ever seen anything more erotic in my life.

"Understand?" he growls, his voice thick.

I can't even answer with words. I need to have more of him. We are still crushed together from the waist down and I rock slightly, which causes House to groan softly and close his eyes. I take that as an invitation to kiss him again.

When our tongues meet and collide, I feel shivers right down to my toes. I can feel his stubble against my cheeks and lips and it scratches, but feels _right_.

His hands tangle themselves in my hair and he pushes forward even more and I have the most ludicrous thought that if we don't stop right now, I will have to throw out these pants, because no amount of dry cleaning will ever get the stains out of them.

The thought makes me smile briefly and in that instant, I bravely decide to go where no man has gone before. At least, I think _no man _has gone there.

My fingers are surprisingly quick at undoing his button and fly of his jeans and I can barely believe my own brazenness as I reach into his pants and wrap my fingers around him.

Then my only thoughts are of him. How he feels in my hand, hot and heavy and hard. There is a drop of moisture leaking from the tip and as I spread it around with my thumb, I feel his eyes fly open.

Too much too soon? I wonder, praying to an unknown deity that he doesn't come to his senses and stop. This is feeling too incredibly, wonderfully good and I'm desperate for more.

"Not here," he says and limps away from me, leaving his cane on the floor and after a moment, I follow breathlessly.

He flops down on the bed, with his arms over his head, looking up at the ceiling. I chew my bottom lip, looking at him, scared of what to do next.

House props himself up on his elbows and stares at me, eyebrows arched as if to say '_Get on with it'._ In fact, I'm somewhat surprised that he _doesn't_ say it aloud.

He peels his t-shirt over his head and though I've seen him without a shirt countless times, this time it's _different_ and I can't help but stare, dry-mouthed.

I unbutton my shirt and carefully place it on the chair and ignore the snort House issues at my ingrained neatness. I slide my pants off and decide to leave them in a pile on the floor, but I'm not ready to be completely naked with him just yet, so I leave my boxers on.

House is still looking at me and I realized that aside from having disrobed, I haven't moved from my spot in the doorway. Nervously, I make my way over to where he is on the bed and thankfully again, he takes the lead.

He pulls me on top of him, and I'm careful of his thigh, but he doesn't seem to mind at the moment and then he's kissing me. I think I could kiss House all night, he kisses wonderfully.

His tongue explores my mouth and the inside of my cheeks and this time, the kiss isn't quite as rough as in the kitchen, but it's still hard and full of want.

I feel House's hand on my forearm, urging my hands down and I stop kissing him only long enough to push his jeans and underwear down over his hips and he kicks them off.

He's naked and gorgeous. I want to tell him he looks beautiful, but I know he'd come up with a smart-ass comment and it's not what he wants to hear right now, so I swallow the words and instead, lower my head and flick my tongue over one distended nipple.

I hear him hiss and look up to see his head thrown back and his throat exposed. He looks fantastic. I don't think I've ever been this hard.

"Wilson." House fairly snarls my name and I know he's feeling the same.

My hand is stroking him slowly, reveling in the sensation of his hard flesh in my hand. He looks at me, his eyes heavy-lidded and I slide further down his body, loving the way he feels against me.

I grip his cock at the base and slowly lick a stripe up to the very tip, tasting the salty wetness that continues to leak there. I slide my lips over the head and suck slowly, but firmly and I can sense House's hands twisting in the bedsheets on either side of him.

I open my eyes and look up, only to find that he's still propped up on his elbows, watching me.

I can't take any more, and with one hand I reach inside my boxers and rub frantically at my own cock and I know that I'm not going to last long.

I groan at the sensation of my own fingers against my flesh and the sound vibrates all the way down to House's cock securely ensconced in my mouth and he lets out a groan of his own.

Bizarrely, I want to last longer than he does, and so simultaneously, I slow down the movements on my own cock and speed up the movements on his.

I've never done this before, never given any thought whatsoever as to what sort of techniques are involved, but what I'm doing seems to be working. House is thrashing and groaning and I finally have to take my hand away and place it across his hips, to prevent him from thrusting any deeper.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 (House)**

House watched, propped up on his elbows, as Wilson sucked his cock.

It was vaguely surreal.

As well as being the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

Ever.

Including that show in Vegas with the 6 lesbian contortionists and the midget.

House closed his eyes and then opened them again, as if on the off chance that this was an elaborate hallucination and any minute Wilson might be replaced by Ernest Borgnine or Kermit the Frog.

Nope.

Still Wilson.

_Wilson_ was sucking his cock.

Doing a damn good job really.

What he lacked in technique, he more than made up in enthusiasm.

Dr. James Wilson. The Human Hoover.

And where exactly did he learn to do _that_?

House closed his eyes again and let out a deep groan that wasn't a hundred percent voluntary.

Christ, he'd wasted a lot of money on hookers.

A lot of money.

Wilson's money, usually.

How's that for irony?

Somehow he didn't think Wilson would appreciate it.

He let himself drift.

It wasn't until he felt Wilson's arm press heavily against his hips that he realized he'd been thrusting progressively harder into Wilson's mouth.

Bad blow-job etiquette. Whoops.

It wasn't enough, was the problem.

It was good. SO good. But it wasn't enough.

He needed more.

"Wilson," he croaked.

Wilson continued his efforts unabated.

"Wilson, stop!"

Wilson looked up, eyes wide, and House slipped from his lips with an audible pop.

"Oh God. Did I- Did I do it wrong? I did it wrong. It was terrible." He sat up and started to move toward the edge of the bed.

"Wilson-"

"You're disgusted. You're not attracted to men. This is weird. Of course this is weird. I'm me, you're you. I'll go. I-"

"Wilson! Shut up!"

Wilson froze. "I don't understand."

"I want to fuck you."

Wilson looked relieved and terrified all at the same time. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Now?"

"No. Next Wednesday. Of course, now! You're naked and horny, I'm naked and horny...It seems like the appropriate thing to do."

"But..."

House rolled his eyes. "But what?"

Wilson took a deep breath and seemed to steel himself. "But nothing. You're right. This is what I wanted. Let's do it."

"Good answer. C'mere."

Wilson crawled up the bed and House kissed him again. And again. And again. Long, deep kisses.

House kissed like he was drowning. Or starving. Sometimes he thought maybe he was.

Wilson was tentative, unsure now, as if any second he expected House to shove him out of bed and yell, "Psyche!"

House toyed with the idea for a minute, just to see the look on Wilson's face, but dismissed it the instant Wilson's hand wrapped around his leaking cock again and started to stroke.

He closed his eyes again and threw his head back, breaking a kiss, and sucking a deep breath in through his mouth. His heart threatened to pound through his chest.

Yeah. They should've done this years ago.

He kissed Wilson again, then pulled back. Wilson, braver now, followed him, not wanting to relinquish his mouth. House grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back.

"Turn over."

Dazed, Wilson did as he was told.

House let out an appreciative wolf-whistle as he ran his hand down Wilson's back and gave his ass a squeeze.

Wilson seemed to come back to himself again and looked back over his shoulder, blushing furiously.

"Oh yes. Let's please make this as awkward as is humanly possible."

House considered this. "Squeal like a pig."

"SO not funny."

"Not to you maybe."

"Forget it." Wilson extricate himself, House grabbed his hips and held them. He pressed his chest to Wilson's back, cock throbbing against his ass.

"You don't want to do that."

Wilson gasped. "No, I don't," he groaned.

House reached his hand out, just under Wilson's chin. "Spit."

This time Wilson did extricate himself. Quickly. And dumped House unceremoniously on to the bed.

"Oww! Fuck!"

"Are you insane?!" demanded Wilson.

"Are you?!"

"SPIT?! We're not in prison!"

"If we were this would seriously diminish your worth in cigarettes." House rubbed his mangled thigh and winced. "I was kidding, you idiot."

Wilson looked abashed. "I'm sorry. I just- Are you okay?"

"Other the the usual, and an epic case of blue balls, I'm peachy." House looked at Wilson seriously. "Do you want to do this or not?"

"I do. Of course I do," Wilson said emphatically.

"Then lets do it."

"I'm just..._nervous_." Wilson dropped his eyes and flushed a bright red.

House smirked and glanced down at his groin, then up again. "It is intimidating, I know."

Wilson raised his eyes and rolled them. "Yes, that's it exactly," he snapped. "Thanks for understanding."

House sighed. "Look, I wasn't going straight for the main event. I am a doctor too, remember. I know what needs to be done. Either you trust me or you don't."

It was Wilson's turn to sigh. "God knows why, but I do."

"Then stop screwing around and let me fuck you already!"

"You have the soul of a poet."

"And the libido of a sailor on shore leave. Assume the position."

Wilson looked confused. "Aren't you going to get....stuff?"

"Stuff?"

"Lubricant, for one," Wilson muttered embarrassedly.

House had reached his limit. "Alright, I'm sure this blushing virgin thing was adorable when you were 17 and fumbling with Rachel Himmelfarb in the back of your Dad's Dodge, but in case the stubble and the raging erection failed to tip you off, I'm not a teenage girl!"

He slid off the bed and limped purposefully in the direction of the kitchen. Five minutes later he was back clutching a bottle of gourmet, extra virgin (Ha ha. Irony again.) olive oil. He opened the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved a small tub of Vaseline. He held it up.

"It's this or your fancy olive oil." He brandished the bottle of oil. "Take your pick. I haven't been gay long enough to go shopping."

Wilson looked scandalized. "That olive oil is 40 dollars a bottle! I have to order it online!"

House grinned. "Old school it is." He tossed the Vaseline on the bed, set the olive oil on the floor, and gingerly laid back down and reached for Wilson.

Who pulled away.

What fresh Hell was this?

"Condoms?"

House gaped at him. "You're kidding me."

"You sleep with prostitutes!"

"With whom I wear condoms!"

"That's not the point!"

House took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. He reached over and retrieved his pills from the bedside table, took 2 and leveled his gaze at Wilson.

"In a minute I'm going to get up and take a _very _cold shower. Then I'm going to bed. To sleep. Tomorrow you're going to do whatever it is you need to do. Get supplies, read a manual, have a little hen party with Cuddy and Cameron to discuss your feelings. I don't care. Just don't make me participate."

"I-"

"Shut up. I don't care."

House got up and started hobbling in the direction of the bathroom. Halfway, he paused and turned around. "You sleep on the left. And don't hog the covers."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven (Wilson)**  
"Wilson, stop!" House orders, and surprised, I look up. Christ. _Now_ he decides to come to his senses? _Now?!_

I start babbling, mortified, and sit up, trying to put some distance between the two of us before I make an even bigger fool of myself. My first thought is that maybe I wasn't doing it right; I mean, maybe I didn't suck hard enough or, oh god, what if I hurt him? Or maybe, I don't know... This is too weird, too unbelievably _good_, but it just can't be. Not House. Not me. Not _me and House._

"Wilson! Shut up!"

"I don't understand."

His eyes flashing predatorily, House said, "I want to fuck you."

Oh god. So I _was_ doing it right, but...oh god. I hadn't thought of that. A feeling of intense excitement coupled with a nervousness I've never experienced before starts unfurling in the pit of my stomach.

"What?" _Good one, Wilson._

"You heard me." he says slowly.

"Now?" _Stop talking, already._

"No, next Wednesday!" House exclaims, with more than a trace of exasperation in his voice.

There is more conversation, though I can't recall exactly what was said, because the next thing I know, I'm agreeing that this is what I want, and then he's kissing me and I can't think straight when he's kissing me.

If at all possible, I think I'm even more nervous now than before. Knowing that he wants me is fantastic and scary all at once.

I can't control my hands, and once again I reach for his cock and stroke it slowly, feeling it lurch and watching as House throws his head back.

He kisses me again and then pulls back again. Desperate for more of his mouth, I try to follow, but he pushes me back.

"Turn over."

Without thinking, I comply and am nearly mortified when House runs a warm hand down my back and squeezes my ass, whistling his appreciation.

As usual, House manages to turn the situation into something resembling his brand of humour and at once, I try to get out of the bed, humiliated beyond belief and still incredibly aroused.

House grabs me and presses himself against my back, I can feel his cock pulsing against my ass. _God,_ it feels so good. Maybe I'll stay.

But then he puts his hand under my chin and orders me to spit. _Spit!?! I don't think so._

I'm out of the bed before I even realize what I'm doing, and House is lying on the bed, cursing.

"Are you insane?!" I demand, wondering just how utterly ridiculous I look standing naked, with my hands on my hips, in my House's darkened bedroom.

"Are you?!" he quips back, rubbing his thigh.

He actually has to admit that he was kidding before I come to my senses. I'm going to ruin this whole thing, I know it. This is _exactly_ why I didn't want to get involved with House in the first place. Still...I really, really want this and I tell him so.

It takes every ounce of courage I have left (which by this point, isn't much) to tell him that I'm nervous. And as usual, he makes a joke of it.

"Thanks for understanding." I say dryly.

Then, with patience not common to House, he explains what he was going to do and asks me if I trust him.

"I do. God knows why, but I do." I answer honestly.

"Then let me fuck you already!" he exclaims, and frankly, I'm surprised he still wants to after all the hassle it's been thus far.

"Aren't you going to get..._stuff_?" _Stuff?. Eloquent, Wilson, very good job there._

I can't believe I have to spell it out for him, but it's House, so of course he's going to make this as uncomfortable as possible.

"Lubricant, for one." _Being the most important and all..._

House sighs and limps out of the bedroom, only to return carrying a bottle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. _You've got to be kidding me._

He also pulls out a jar of Vaseline from the bedside table and tells me to choose.

"That olive oil is $40 a bottle! I have to order it online!" And not only that, but if we use that, I'll never be able to cook without getting a hard-on again.

"Old school it is." House says and reaches as though to pull me towards him.

"Condoms?" I ask, thinking it's a pretty reasonable request.

He looks scandalized. "You're kidding me."

"You sleep with prostitutes." I remind him.

Eventually, he gives up. He reaches for his ever-present bottle of Vicodin, pops a couple and looks at me intently.

"In a minute I'm going to get up and take a _very _cold shower. Then I'm going to bed. To sleep. Tomorrow you're going to do whatever it is you need to do. Get supplies, read a manual, have a little hen party with Cuddy and Cameron to discuss your feelings. I don't care. Just don't make me participate."

I'm so disappointed and yet, have no real words to say. I attempt to say something, but he stops me and starts making his way to the bathroom.

I close my eyes and wonder how quickly I can get out of here, when he says something totally unexpected.

"You sleep on the left. And don't hog the covers."

House actually expects me to stay here. And sleep with him. Actually _sleep._

I lay awake for a long time, even after he returns from his shower, smelling faintly of _my_ shower gel. I smile, looking at the outline of his back in the dark and listen for his even breathing that lets me know he's fallen asleep.

I figure I'm always up before House, so it should be no problem at all to sneak out of bed and put as much distance between the two of us as possible. I need to think. I don't need to think. I don't know what I need, other than that what I _want_ is House.

And despite the magnificent fiasco that was last night, I _still_ want House. Now, possibly, more than ever.

I guess that means a shopping excursion.

*~*~*~*~

Sunlight streams in through the windows, hitting me in the face and even though I'm exhausted (sleeping next to House all night, _trying_ to not touch him, my cock aching and hard and desperate for release) I squint my eyes and try to block out the light.

It's no use, though and I can still feel the warmth of House's body beside me and I'm convinced he's still asleep so I open my eyes.

And find his eyes open and staring at me.

"Good morning, Sunshine." he says and it makes me laugh.

He reaches out to stroke my cheek. "I can see forever in your eyes."

I turn away from him, he's just being cheeky now. Mocking me. Though when romance ever figured into the equation is beyond me.

"Sweetie, don't be mad." he says and I move out of bed just before he can press himself against me.

"Shower." I say, for once being short with words.

"I'll take an omlette for breakfast this morning, darling. Make sure you wear the apron."

Breakfast is as usual, House has his mouth stuffed too full to make too many wisecracks, and though I'm still on edge about what happened last night, I can see that it hasn't changed the dynamics of our relationship _too _much.

He leaves before me for once, and on his way out, gives my ass a slap and winks at me.

"Tonight. 7:00. No excuses," and then he turns and grins wolfishly, "And Wilson?"

"Mmm?" I say, looking up from my coffee and newspaper.

"Wear something pretty."

*~*~*~*~

_'Wear something pretty.'_ House's words echo in my head as I survey the rows upon rows of sexual lubricants.

_Astroglide, Maximus, Wet...._ lubes of every conceivable colour and flavour. Tingling, warming, cooling.

Choosing was proving to be extremely difficult.

I purposely drove miles out of my way during my lunch break to a sex shop that I had never been to, and silly me, I thought I could simply walk in, purchase condoms and lubricants and be back at the hospital with still enough time to have the fish and chips special from the cafeteria.

Not so, apparently.

_What the hell are anal beads?_

Anyway, I'm very distracted in this shop and can't tell what kind of difference a water-based lubricant would have as compared to a silicone-based one.

The condoms were easy. I just bought my regular brand. If House has a problem with that, he can go buy his own damned condoms.

_Wonder what House would say if I wore a thong? Thongs are pretty, right? Hmm...god, no. He would laugh himself hoarse, and nothing deflates an ego (and cock) faster than being laughed at._

What am I doing here again? Lubricant. Right. Ahh, here's a rather interesting choice. Says this one is 'desensitizing'. So does that mean it won't hurt? Or that it will last longer? Or...I have really no idea. I'm so far out of my depth here that I'm seriously reconsidering the whole olive oil thing.

So, I'm standing there, obviously perplexed by the vast array of choices, when I'm startled by a soft tap on the shoulder.

"Dr. Wilson?" inquires a voice and I turn to look into unfamiliar green eyes.

"Susie." says the girl standing before me, and though I don't immediately place her, I frantically search my brain and wonder if I've slept with her.

She extends a hand and out of courtesy I accept, all the while thinking how awkward this is, to be shaking hands in the middle of a sex shop. I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my jacket.

"You treated my father. Pancreatic cancer. Samuel Martins."

_Click._ Now I remember.

"Susie. Hi. How are you?" Politeness dictates even in uncomfortable situations.

"Pretty good," she says, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, "This is my shop."

"It is? Wow, that's great." Dear god, save me now before I choke to death on embarrassment.

This is only the beginning, however.

"Can I help you pick something out?" Susie asks, nodding towards the rack of lubes.

I feel my cheeks burning and must have stuttered a bit.

"It's alright," she says gently, "Now, each lube has specific qualities, so if you let me know the problem, I'll help you decide on the perfect lubrication to meet your exact needs."

No. I can't. I would rather have my lips sewn shut than to have to tell her.

"Is it for your wife? Some women experience vaginal dryness..."

"Wife? Uh, no."

Somehow my tie has tightened itself around my neck and the furnace in the store has seemingly been kicked up a notch.

I can feel Susie's eyes searching my left hand for the wedding band she knew was there three years ago.

She puts a hand to her chest. "Oh, Dr. Wilson," she breathes, "I'm so sorry."

"For the best, really." I reply automatically, thinking of House's mouth on mine.

"Girlfriend?" I actually laugh out loud, picturing House's face if he ever heard himself referred to as my girlfriend.

"Uh, well...not exactly."

I see her eyes flick back and forth and then widen in surprise. To her credit, she recovers nicely though.

"Oh. Well. In that case, the types of lube that would best suit you are in this section right here." She waves a hand over an area that I had previously overlooked.

Here are bottles with the most ridiculous sounding names: _Manglide _and _Stallion Pumper._

Susie reaches out and selects a bottle. "I recommend this one. Most of our gay customers swear by it."

_Doc's Anal Lube._

"House will certainly see the humour in the title." I say, before realizing exactly what I had said.

I look up at Susie, my eyes wide and my face red, hoping she didn't hear me. She did.

"Dr. House?" she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. "That's right. I do remember the two of you being awfully close."

Susie rings up my purchase and I escape to my car, furious with myself, furious with House, and even still desperately wanting him.

When I get back to the hospital, I grab the innocuous paper bag and march straight up to House's office.

He looks pissed. Good.

Cameron, Chase and Foreman look scared. Oh well.

A deep breath and I push open the glass door, and three heads turn in unison.

House is looking at me as though he has x-ray vision. I throw the bag at him, which he catches in one hand.

"The sex had better be incredible. I am never doing that again."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve (House)**

Morning.

Thank Christ.

House laid on his side, staring at the other occupant of his bed.

It had been a long time since he'd woken up next to anyone.

Longer still since he'd wanted to.

But this didn't qualify.

Not really.

Not yet.

To wake up you actually have to sleep first.

House hadn't closed his eyes all night.

Whether it was Wilson's unfamiliar presence in his bed (his weight, his heat, the stupid little breathy noises he made while he slept), or the epic case of blue-balls that both jerking off and a cold shower hadn't been able to cure, he wasn't sure.

But he had a sneaking suspicion that one bled into the other.

Either way he was exhausted, frustrated and just a wee bit cranky.

Should be a fun morning for all concerned.

He watched as Wilson pretended to sleep.

Wilson had woken up about 15 minutes earlier and had been feigning sleep, _badly, _ever since.

House was waiting him out.

It had been a long wait. House had to take a leak.

Man up, Wilson, you big Mary.

Suddenly Wilson rolled over and looked him in the eye. He seemed surprised to see House awake.

And nervous.

He looked as nervous as it's possible for a man with bed-head _to_ look.

House sighed inwardly.

Fine. He'd do his good deed for the day.

For the century. After this he was fresh out of goodwill.

"Good Morning, Sunshine," he said wryly.

Wilson let out a strangled laugh that sounded somewhere between relief and hysteria.

So his brain wasn't _completely_ broken then.

Good.

House might actually get laid tonight.

Might.

If he didn't drop the ball now.

Or, more accurately, didn't hurl the ball up onto the roof of the school never to be seen again, which seemed infinitely more likely.

By, oh, calling Wilson a ridiculous coward and sending him home to his wife.

Which is what his wounded pride and disappointed dick were telling him to do.

Instead, acting solely out of horny self-interest (as he would insist to anyone foolish enough to question his motivation) House bit back on all his resentful and exhausted frustration and settled on relentless mockery.

Kid gloves.

Wilson had better fucking appreciate it.

Chase, Cameron and Foreman would be paying for it.

House threw himself into his part. "I can see forever in your eyes," he gushed, reaching out to lay a hand on Wilson's cheek.

Wilson jerked his head back. "Ha ha."

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg House scooched over to Wilson's side of the bed, arms out-stretched. "Sweetie, don't be mad."

Wilson jumped out of bed before House could reach him. He must have put his underwear back on while House was in the shower last night because his modesty remained in tact. House felt a flare of annoyance at Wilson's prudishness and struggled to dampen it. All this embarrassment bullshit was worthless. Worse, it was boring.

"Go shower," said Wilson, uncomfortably.

House propped himself up on his elbows, reminiscent of the night before when Wilson had gone down on him. Wilson blushed and stared at his feet.

House smirked. "I'll take an omelette for breakfast this morning, Darling." (Huge lisping emphasis on the endearment.) "Make sure you wear the apron," he added as an afterthought. Something to remind him why all this courtship garbage would be worth it.

Wilson threw on a t-shirt (One of House's. Not that it mattered or felt good in any way that House would acknowledge in the light of day.) and headed toward the kitchen, presumably to prepare House's omelette, leaving House himself alone in the bedroom.

He sank back down into the pillows and reached for the bottle of Vicodin on the bedside table.

This would be easier medicated.

He took four and hoped it would be enough to get through breakfast.

Twenty minutes later found him showered, dressed and inhaling the last of a large Spanish omelette.

Wilson _had_ worn the apron, was still wearing it, in fact, sitting at the table with his coffee and the morning paper.

It hadn't had the desired effect.

The apron made everything worse.

It was a monument to sexual frustration.

Pink, frilly rejection.

House had to get out of there.

Preferably before he snapped like a twig and either threw Wilson down on the table and had his way with him, or punched him in the face.

He glanced at his watch. 6:45. Screw it. He'd be early for once.

Abruptly he stood up and limped quickly toward the door, pausing to retrieve his cane from where it had fallen last night.

Straightening up he looked back at Wilson, his expression hard. "Tonight. 7:00. No excuses."

House turned his back and continued on his way out, but stopped again in the hallway, as if he had forgotten something.

"And Wilson?" he called.

Wilson looked up expectantly from his paper.

"Wear something pretty."

The door slammed shut behind him.

*~*~*~*~

By the time that House actually got to his office he was seething.

He'd arrived at the hospital at stupid o'clock and been forced to join the ridiculously long breakfast line in the cafeteria to get a lousy cup of coffee. (There was no guarantee that his machine was in any condition to produce anything other than a fire alarm after yesterday. Lousy cafeteria coffee was better than none at all.)

Lousy _decaf _coffee, as it turned out, because the jackass in front of him, with the bald guy ponytail who'd bathed in Aqua Velva, had gotten the last of the regular in his enormous Aflac travel mug.

Not that it mattered. He'd only gotten to hold it for a grand total of three seconds before a resident with her nose stuck in a book had plowed into him, sending the coffee cascading all over his arm and his shoes.

Cuddy had been summoned shortly after the girl had burst into tears.

"My office! Now!" she barked.

House grabbed a handful of napkins and hobbled angrily into the foyer.

Cuddy followed. Once inside her office she shut the door behind them and folded her arms across her chest, eyebrows raised in question. "Well?"

"You spoil the view that way, you know," House leered, mopping at his sleeve.

"Really? That's how you wanna start?"

House rolled his eyes. "What's to start? Your residents are morons who couldn't diagnose a runny nose. One of those morons happens to be spatially retarded and owes me a cup of coffee and a new pair of shoes. We done?"

"No! Far from it! That was uncalled for! It was abusive!"

House stared at her, expressionless. "You're right. I'm a monster. Can I go now?"

Cuddy sighed. "Fine. Don't forget you've got clinic duty at 10."

House headed for the door. "Cameron'll be there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

"Oh, no. Not this time."

"Whatever. Chase then."

"No, _you_. _You_ will do these hours, or _you_ will be out of a job. I don't care what's up your ass today. Be there!" Her tone brooked no argument.

House clenched his jaw. _His_ ass wasn't the problem.

"Fine. 10."

He pushed the door open. "You might want to invest in a Wonderbra for that outfit. The twins are starting to look their age."

He let the door bang behind him and headed for the elevator.

By the time he'd reached his office seething didn't even begin to cover it.

His arm was still dripping, cold now, and his shoes were making an unpleasant squelch every time he took a step.

He shoved the door open and limped inside, tossing his backpack onto the nearest chair.

The clock read 7:32.

At least he had some time before the kiddies showed up.

Maybe long enough for a nap.

"What happened to you?!"

Shit.

House turned around slowly and looked into the worried face of Cameron, still wearing her coat, bag slung over her shoulder.

"What are you doing here?!" he demanded.

She looked at him, perplexed. "I had some work to finish up. What are you doing here?"

"It's _my_ office."

She reached for his arm. "You're dripping on the carpet. What happened?"

House jerked his arm away. "I'm _fine_. It's coffee, not battery acid."

"You might have scalded yourself. The skin on your wrist looks red. Let me-"

"It's _fine_! _I'm_ fine! Do you think you could stifle your ridiculous need to coddle _everyone_ just for today? Maybe Chase will get a splinter and you can spend the day mopping _his_ brow and holding _his_ hand. He might appreciate it. He's got all kinds of mommy issues. Just leave me out of it."

Cameron's eyes betrayed her hurt for just a second, then her face was placid once more.

"I'll be in the conference room if you need anything," she said coolly, then turned on her heel and walked out.

House shrugged off his suit jacket and examined the sleeve.

Maybe Wilson could get the stain out.

He tossed the jacket onto the chair with his backpack and began to unbutton his shirt. The coffee had soaked through onto it too, staining the sleeve.

Wilson would be busy on laundry day.

Thankfully his t-shirt had escaped unscathed.

He chucked the button-down into the chair along with everything else, then crossed the room and sat down behind his desk. He stripped off his shoes and socks and threw them into the corner to dry out. Or disintegrate. Or whatever the hell happened to Nikes marinated in Sanka.

He stared at his feet for a second and wiggled his toes. It felt vaguely obscene.

"Cameron!" he bellowed.

She stepped through the adjoining door a moment later and crossed her arms. "What?"

"Go and get me a pair of those paper clean-room slippers. Large."

She opened her mouth to object but thought better of it. "Fine."

When she returned she thrust them at him without a word and went back to the conference room and her paperwork.

House put them on and turned on the stereo. Tom Waits growled through the speakers. He sat back down and retrieved his Magic Eight Ball from the depths of the bottom drawer.

He tossed it in the air once and caught it, then eased his paper clad feet up onto his desk and leaned back in his chair.

_"Gone, gone, he's long gone, gone to Indiana, ain't never comin' home...." _sang Tom.

House gave the Magic Eight Ball an appraising stare.

_**Was this whole thing with Wilson a giant fucking mistake?**_

He gave the ball a little shake and turned it over.

**Better not tell you now.**

Stupid eight ball.

Joy Division replaced Tom Waits.

'Love Will Tear Us Apart.'

Skip.

Bob Dylan.

Better.

House glanced up and saw Cameron peering at him concernedly through the glass partition. He felt an overwhelming urge to hurl the eight ball through the glass, but didn't. He glared at her, then looked back at the toy in his hands.

_**Would Cameron ever get over this stupid crush?**_

Shake, shake.

**Don't count on it.**

And so the morning passed.

Chase and Foreman arrived shortly after nine, looking surprised and puzzled to see him there already. Cameron must have warned them off because neither attempted to speak to him.

He had caught Chase briefly lingering at the door looking embarrassed, but he'd moved on the instant he'd noticed House watching him.

Christ.

The next person who dared to blush in his presence was getting a cane colonoscopy.

At ten to ten Cuddy came through the door.

"Yes?!" House snarled.

She looked bored. "Oh, put it away. You don't scare me."

"What do you want?"

"I'm here to escort you to the clinic."

"But Mom! All the other kids get to walk by themselves!"

"All the other kids can be trusted to do what they're told. Let's go."

Cuddy cast a critical eye over House then gestured at the pile of clothes in the chair. "I can have those dry-cleaned for you."

He stood up and headed for the conference room door. "Don't bother. Wilson's playing Molly Maid at my place these days. I'm sure between him and Heloise everything will turn out just fine."

He stuck his head through the door, startling all three fellows. "I'll be in the clinic until two. Try not to miss me too much."

He turned and walked out into the hallway, Cuddy close on his heels.

They walked to the elevator; House taking measured, deliberate steps in his slippery paper shoes.

"Speaking of Wilson," said Cuddy, "do you know where he is? He's not in yet and he hasn't called. His staff are starting to get concerned. Did he say anything to you?"

House clenched his jaw. "Wilson's a big boy. He'll be here when he gets here."

Cuddy raised an eyebrow. "Are you two alright?"

"We're super. Thanks for asking."

"I-"

House cut her off. "I'm leaving at noon."

"You're scheduled until two."

"But I'm leaving at noon."

"Two, House. Not negotiable."

"We'll see."

They got on the elevator and rode downstairs in silence.

When the doors opened Cuddy marched him directly into the clinic and handed him off to Nurse Brenda, Scourge of the First Floor.

"Here he is. He's on until two. Not a second earlier. Keep an eye on him. Make sure he's not sleeping. Or watching TV. Or playing video games." She looked around the crowded waiting room. "I want all of these people seen today."

Nurse Nightmare grunted her assent.

Cuddy looked at House. "And put on a lab coat. That t-shirt is offensive."

House saluted.

Cuddy shot him a withering look, then turned back to Nurse Skullcrusher. "Watch him."

And then she was gone.

House faced Jabba the Nurse. "Who's my first germ-monkey?"

She thrust a chart at him. "Exam Room 3."

"Goody. Exam Room 3 is my _favourite_."

"There's a coat behind the door."

"Fantastic."

House peered down at the chart in his hand.

Glenard Fitzgibbon, 43.

Anal leakage.

Clearly Nurse Brenda had been waiting for him.

House stepped through the door of Exam Room 3. "Did your parents dislike you, _Glenard_?"

"Ex-excuse me?"

"Never mind. Let's make this quick, shall we?"

The small man nodded and fidgeted with the hem of his ill-fitting shorts.

"Take a lot of "back-door" deliveries?"

"Are- are you a- a doctor?" stammered Glenard, pushing his enormous glasses back up his nose.

"Don't I look like one?"

Glenard appeared to consider this. He looked House up and down, pausing to take in the majesty of his shirt. (Naked lady straddling a winged skull. It read 'LOVE TO RIDE, RIDE TO LOVE.' House had bought it in Fort Lauderdale in 1982. It was a truly awesome t-shirt. Wilson hated it.)

"You're wearing paper shoes."

"Lets the little piggies breathe. But we're not here to talk about me. Get "prison friendly" with anyone recently?"

Fitzgibbon looked confused. The realization dawned and he looked disgusted. "NO!"

"Drink a lot of beer?"

"I abstain."

"Of course you do. Silly of me to ask. Junk food?"

"Never."

Fifteen mind-numbing minutes later it had been established that along with three weeks of poopy pants Glenard Fitzgibbon was suffering from an acute case of idiocy.

Surprise, surprise.

He'd been taking his sister's Xenical, thinking it was antacid.

There was not enough Vicodin in the world to make this bearable. The clinic was the Tenth Circle of Hell.

By 11:30 House had seen 9 patients, ordered 2 needless MRIs and a useless full body scan, called Cuddy in for a consult 4 times, and given Nurse Nazi a tension headache.

He'd just finished ordering a series of x-rays for a sprained toe when Cuddy stormed in.

"YOU-"

"Patient." House gestured at the young woman still sitting on the examination table.

Cuddy took a deep breath and smiled tightly at the girl.

"Here," House said as he handed the patient the forms. "Give these to Godzilla over at the Nurse's Station. She'll tell you where to go."

The girl limped out and Cuddy shut the door behind her.

"Get out," she said.

"But I'm scheduled till two."

"You win, alright?! You're done! In the last 90 minutes you've cost the hospital thousands of dollars in unnecessary tests! And you're driving me crazy! Brenda wants you out of her clinic and so do I. You win. Get out."

House left without a word.

He hobbled through the door of the conference room a few minutes later.

Cameron quirked an eyebrow. "I thought you were in the clinic until two? Does Cuddy know you're here?"

"She commuted my sentence to time served."

Cameron looked suspicious. "Un-huh."

"Cross my little black heart." House sat down at the table. "What are we doing?"

Foreman sighed. "_Some_ of us are working. _You're_ being a pain in the ass."

"You wound me. I-" House stopped. "What's that?"

Chase looked up from his crossword. "What's what?"

"That." House pointed at the offending item.

"A coffee maker?" said Chase, befuddled.

House stood up and gimped over to it. "I _know_ it's a coffee maker. Where did it _come_ from?"

"Wilson brought it by yesterday," said Cameron.

"Of course he did."

"He said the old one was broken." She smiled. "He also said not to let you touch it."

"Saint Wilson. Such a _nice_ boy" House snarled.

"It makes good coffee," offered Chase.

"What's your problem?" demanded Foreman.

"_I _don't have a goddamn problem!" House exploded.

Foreman nodded, eyes wide. "Yeah. Clearly you're fine."

House had just opened his mouth to retort when Wilson himself burst through the door. He threw a paper bag at House, who snatched it out of the air with his free hand.

"The sex had better be incredible!" Wilson exclaimed. "I am _never_ doing that again!"

He was gone almost as suddenly as he'd arrived.

House stood immobile for a second, stunned; then he grinned, all anger forgotten.

_That_ was why all the bullshit was worth wading through.

_That_ wasn't boring.

Wilson wasn't boring.

Not in any way that mattered.

House set the bag down on the table and limped, as quickly as his paper slippers would allow, after Wilson, leaving his team dumbstruck in his wake.

He banged on Wilson's office door two minutes later. "WILSON! OPEN UP!"

"Go away!" came the muffled reply.

"Let me in or I will make you sorry!"

"Do your worst!"

"You don't really mean that."

The door opened. "No. I don't."

House leveled his gaze at Wilson. "Did anyone ever tell you you're pretty when you're angry?"

Wilson laughed despite himself. Naturally this time. No hysteria, no desperation. "Not recently, no."

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment.

Then House smiled slightly. "Hungry?"

"Starving. I'll get my wallet."

Wilson retrieved what he needed from his office and locked the door behind him.

"So," he said, as they started down the hall, "what's up with the slippers?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen (House's Team)**

Chase, Cameron and Foreman sat in silence, staring at the paper bag in the centre of the table.

Cameron spoke first.

"He can't have meant..." She trailed off helplessly.

"No. I mean- No," answered Chase, shaking his head.

Foreman looked from one to the other incredulously. "Of course that's what he meant! Are you two blind?"

"They're friends!" said Cameron defensively. "Besides, House isn't gay."

"And Wilson's married," added Chase.

Foreman gave Chase a pointed look. "Everybody lies." Then he turned to Cameron. "And you don't know House isn't gay. He could be gay as a spring parade for all we know. Bisexual. Whatever. All we _do_ know is that Wilson is the only person that he's interested in spending _any_ time with. That tells _me_ something. Besides, the amount of shit that Wilson puts up with, he's got to be getting more out of it than just the pleasure of House's charming company. Open your eyes. Who else would want him but Wilson?"

Cameron blushed and looked away.

Foreman winced. "Sorry."

It was silent again for a minute, then Chase reached for the bag. "I think we should see what's inside."

Cameron snatched it back. "No! That's an invasion of privacy!"

Chase looked to Foreman for a ruling.

"She's right. It's an invasion of privacy. And I, for one, don't want to know what's in there. We're here to _work_." Foreman returned to the article he'd been reading.

Chase looked back to Cameron, who was still clutching the paper bag tightly.

"Come on!" he said. "Aren't you the least bit curious? He'd never know. Just one little peek. Answer the question once and for all, yeah?"Chase could see her resolve begin to crumble.

So could Foreman.

Foreman sighed, closed the journal he'd been reading, and stood up. "I don't want any part of this. I'm going to lunch."

He turned and walked out the door.

"Right then," said Chase. "Let's have a look."

Cameron didn't release her hold on the bag. "You don't think maybe Foreman's right, do you? I mean..." She looked pained.

Chase shook his head. "House and _Wilson_? No way. It's probably to do with one of House's prostitutes." Cameron looked strangely cheered by this. "But we'll never know unless we _look_. Come on, he could be back any second."

"Yeah." She seemed to steel herself and tipped the contents out of the bag out onto the table.

A box of condoms and a large bottle of something called Doc's Anal Lubricant sat before them.

They sat staring for a second, then Cameron abruptly stood up.

"I'm taking my lunch now," she said softly. Moments later she was gone.

Chase continued to sit, gaping at the items on the table.

Foreman had been right after all. Smug bastard. There'd be no living with him now. The gloating would be unbearable.

Chase put the items back in the bag and set it back down in roughly the same place where House had left it.

There was one thing that he couldn't understand though, thinking back to the night before and House's inexplicable ass-slap. Why go for Wilson without even _trying it on_ with _him_?!

He was good-looking, young, reasonably intelligent. He had an accent, for God's sake.

What was wrong with _him_?

Not that he would have said yes, mind. Not his cup of tea. But, still. _Wilson_?

Chase went back to his crossword. There was no accounting for taste.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen (Wilson)**

Two minutes later, House is banging on my door, demanding to be let in. Despite better judgement, I open the door and he makes some crack about me being pretty when I'm angry and asks if I'm hungry. After getting my lab coat and wallet, we head towards the cafeteria.

A slight rustling sound draws my attention towards House's feet, which, interestingly enough, are covered in paper hospital slippers.

"So, what's with the slippers?" I ask, unable to control the grin I feel spreading across my face.

He levels me with a glare. "Self-explanatory, isn't it?"

"Of course. Stylish and comfortable. Maybe I should get a pair."

"You could never pull off a look this cool." House says, lifting his chin a fraction of an inch higher.

"You're right. If only I had an offensive t-shirt..." I say wistfully.

"You'd never find one to go with that ugly tie of yours."

I finger the end of my tie, blue with gold stripes. "My-"

Pause. My wife gave me this tie, I was going to say.

My soon-to-be ex wife.

My third ex-wife.

I don't feel like having this conversation with House right now. Eventually I'm sure I'll have no choice, but for right now I don't even want to think about Julie.

"You're right," I agree, "It is an ugly tie."

I see the smirk out of the corner of my eye and thank my lucky stars that House also chooses to leave that conversation alone.

For now.

We're almost to the cafeteria, when House nudges me, hard, and we stumble together into the men's room. Thankfully, it's empty at the moment, for he's got me pressed up against the wall.

I can feel his erection pressed against my thigh, and instantly my cock starts to harden in response.

"How 'bout a blow job in the men's room?" he says thickly, and I'm certain that he means it.

"It is romantic," I say, casting around for something to diffuse the situation, "The smell of urinal cakes is almost like an aphrodisiac."

"Romance is for girls," House says, his eyes glinting dangerously, "And the last time I checked we were both-"

He twists his hips slightly and smiles at the sharp intake of breath I make when his cock comes into hard contact with my own.

"Distinctly male." He growls.

If he kisses me, I will be beyond resistance.

"I thought you were hungry." I say desperately. I don't particularly relish the thought of getting caught in here. With House.

He sighs heavily, turns and runs a hand through hair that looks like he's already done that a million times today. I watch as he limps out of the bathroom and after a minute, I follow.

Hands in my lab coat, pulling it forward to conceal my arousal, I follow him to the cafeteria and buy him lunch. I have fish and chips and coffee and he orders a sandwich, potato chips and pop.

He's got me so worked up at the moment, I fumble with the sugar packets and scowl as House laughs when sugar ends up all over the table.

I watch his fingers sneak over to my plate and swipe a French fry. Normally, I'm used to this kind of behaviour. Now, though, it only irks me and I push my tray towards him.

"If you wanted fish and chips, why didn't you order fish and chips?" I snarl, and immediately regret my tone.

He pops the fry into his mouth and then takes his time licking the salt from his fingers, his eyes intent upon mine.

"So," House says, once he's completed his erotic finger-licking that has me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. "Tell me about your foray into the dark underbelly of human desire."

I sip my coffee and grimace, both at the bitter taste (too stubborn to go get more sugar) and the unpleasant memory of the sex shop.

"Susie Martins." I offer by way of explanation, looking over House's shoulder instead of into too-blue eyes.

"Was she a patient's daughter?"

I sit forward, "You remember her?"

He shakes his head and starts in on the fish, ignoring his sandwich. "Educated guess. I'll fill you in on the brilliance of my deductions some other time. Now, I'm only interested in hearing about the gay stuff shop."

Of course he doesn't remember. House wouldn't remember his own team member's names if they weren't wearing nametags.

I tell him about what happened with Susie, her helpful sexpertise, and my little slip-up with telling her more than she needed to know.

I expected him to be angry, but instead he looks merely amused.

"What was the name?"

"You didn't even look in the bag?" I asked, shocked. I would've thought that House's curiosity would've dictated that he check it out immediately.

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

"Nope." He shakes his head.

I get a sudden sense of unease, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Not even as you locked it in your desk? You did lock it in your desk, didn't you? Please tell me you locked it in your desk."

He reaches for my coffee. "Nope."

I cover my face with my hands, then look up again when he says "I left it on the table in front of Cameron, Chase and Foreman."

He says it all so matter-of-factly, like we're discussing a brochure for a new car, instead of personal details of our sex life.

"You did what?!" My voice seems unnaturally high, and I remind myself that we are in the cafeteria, surrounded by our colleagues. "Are you insane?!"

House leans back in his chair.

"Hey," he says rather calmly, "It wasn't me who came in and practically announced it to everyone in the room. Why'd you even bring the bag inside? I think you wanted them to know."

"I...you...you're...I ..." I'm spluttering and can't seem to figure out the right words to convey the mixture of feelings running through me at this moment.

I'm still sitting at the table as he gets up to leave, torn between anger, frustration, denial and yet lust remains as well. House leans over and whispers something in my ear and then he's gone and I'm left sitting, seething with two plates of uneaten food and a half-drunk coffee in front of me.

"What's his problem?" Interrupts Cuddy, who is suddenly standing in front of me, hands on hips, looking at House as though he left a bad taste in her mouth.

"How the hell would I know?" I snarl, then shake my head, trying to clear it.

It's not Cuddy's fault the man can be an incredible pain in the ass. I shake my head once more, trying to clear thoughts of that.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen (House)**

Wilson had turned an unattractive shade of red when House stood up.

This was getting old. Fast.

He had to leave before he said something his dick would regret.

He grabbed one last french fry off Wilson's plate and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Incredible doesn't even begin to cover it," he breathed, then hobbled out of the cafeteria, leaving a stammering Wilson and an untouched Reuben behind him.

Once in the foyer he glanced at his watch.

Twenty to one.

He was ready to call it a day.

But first things first.

House looked down at his feet in disgust. Time to do something about the slippies.

As his own shoes we a write-off, he'd have to find an alternative. The fifth floor seemed like as good a place to start looking as any.

When he arrived a few minutes later, House limped over to the Nurse's Station and began to flip through the charts, much to the confusion and consternation of the nursing staff.

"Can I help you, Doctor House?" asked a petite young woman in magenta scrubs, who clearly possessed more bravery than sense.

House looked down at her tiny feet, then up again. "No."

He went back to his charts.

The nurse continued to stand at his elbow, unsure of what to do. "Dr. House? I-"

His head snapped back up in irritation and he fixed her with a hard stare. "Is there something _I_ can do for _you_?"

"No, but-"

"Then, _good-bye_."

He returned once again to the charts.

Murphy, Louise.

No.

Addison, Cora.

No.

Fielding, Kenneth. Born 1937. 5'8'.

Maybe.

Reynolds, Nathan. Born 1971. 6'1'.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

Mr. Reynolds, of both Room 517 and a spinal cord injury, was currently having an M.R.I.

Room 517 was House's first port of call.

It took a grand total of forty-five seconds to locate Nathan Reynolds' battered Converse All-Stars.

They were thirteens.

Good enough.

Shoes in one hand, cane gripped firmly in the other, House made his way back towards the elevators. He had just reached the Nurse's Station, which was, for once, mercifully free of nurses, when he noticed Cuddy step off the elevator. He had just enough time to step behind the counter when she saw him.

Wonderful.

Cuddy got straight to the point. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, as she made a beeline for him.

"I'm a doctor. There are sick people here. I'm _helping_."

"Somehow, I doubt that. Seriously, what are you doing up here? None of these people are your patients. So, come on, out with it. What are you up to?"

House looked affronted. "I resent the implication, _Doctor _Cuddy, that I'm here for anything other than altruistic reasons."

"Resentment duly noted. Spill."

House shifted slightly, so that the pair of shoes in his left hand were more thoroughly obscured by the counter.

"I'm not _up_ to anything."

Cuddy looked unconvinced. "Sure."

House sighed theatrically. "This has to stop."

"Excuse me?"

"I know how you feel. And I'm flattered. Really. But it's got to stop. It's getting embarrassing. For both of us." He shook his head pityingly. "I'm sorry. Wilson got there first."

Cuddy opened her mouth to respond but shut it again, a thoughtful look on her face. She shook it off almost immediately.

"Yes," she deadpanned, "I'm madly in love with you. I must have you. Now what are you doing skulking around up here? You're making the nurses nervous."

House looked around at the half dozen nurses bustling back and forth on the ward, all studiously avoiding his gaze. "Which one of them squealed?"

"Not important. The point is that you need to play in your own sandbox, so let's go." She gestured to the elevators.

House huffed in irritation. "Fine. After you."

Cuddy regarded him quizzically for a moment, then walked purposefully around to his side of the counter. She looked from the shoes in his hand to the slippers on his feet, and back again.

"Whose shoes are those?" she asked, pointing.

"Mine are full of coffee."

"That's not what I asked. Whose-" Realization dawned. " Oh my God! Are you _stealing _a patient's shoes?!"

"He's paralyzed from the waist down. He's got bigger things to worry about that a pair of errant Chuck's."

"Put them back."

"I have no shoes."

"Put. Them. Back!"

House shoved them at the first passing orderly. "Room 517." He looked angrily back to Cuddy. "There. Happy?"

"You are unbelievable!"

"So I've been told. Now what am I supposed to do?" He gestured at his feet. "These aren't exactly motorcycle friendly."

"I don't care what you do just do it somewhere else."

As House headed back toward his office, shortly before two, he had managed to successfully ditch the paper slippers; the only problem was that he wasn't entirely sure he'd traded up.

Limp, step, ROWR.

Limp, step, ROWR.

Now, instead of elasticized paper, he sported two large, acid green, dinosaur feet complete with yellow claws.

Limp, step, ROWR.

They also roared on every third step.

On the upside, this had the benefit of annoying everyone in the immediate vicinity. On the downside, it was driving him completely batshit too.

Limp, step, ROWR.

Chase was alone in the conference room when House arrived, looking very deliberately nonchalant. The bag was sitting about 6 inches further to the left than it should have been.

He'd get his pound of flesh tomorrow.

"Where's the rest of the Mod Squad?"

Chase didn't look up from the laptop in front of him. "Cameron's on a consult, Foreman's at a dentist appointment. Why? Do you need something?"

"What size are your feet?"

"Nine and a half." Chase looked up for the first time, perplexed. "Wait. What?"

"Nothing."

House headed toward his office, pausing to snatch Wilson's paper bag off the table.

Limp, step, ROWR.

Curious, Chase followed close behind.

"I assume there's a reason for those."

House grabbed his backpack out of the chair and shoved his stained shirt and the paper bag inside. "Other than my adorable sense of childlike whimsy?"

He limped over to the corner where he'd abandoned his Nikes, and tossed them unceremoniously into the trash.

"Alright. I'm outta here." He limped back towards the door.

"But I saw your bike in the parking lot," said Chase.

"It seemed gauche to drive the Rolls."

"You're not planning to ride home wearing those things?"

"That's exactly what I'm planning to do. Got a hot date." House waggled his eyebrows suggestively and gave the backpack a little shake for emphasis.

Chase flushed, but held his gaze. "I'll drive you."

"Not necessary."

"You can't ride in slippers. It's illegal."

"That's where you're wrong. It's inadvisable. Irresponsible, maybe. But not illegal. Except in the Philippines."

"Whatever. I'll still drive you."

"Not interested. I hear the call of the open road."

House opened the door, then looked back over his shoulder at Chase.

"Chase?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't call. _Any_ of you. Don't call, don't beep, don't knock on my door. I don't care who's dying. I don't _exist_ until nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

Chase nodded. "Have a good night."

"I intend to."

House sat on the side of the road, helmet in hand, waiting for the cop to emerge from his cruiser.

He shifted his weight to keep the bike steady and the slippers roared again. He glared down at them. "Oh, shut up."

"Excuse me?"

House looked over his shoulder. "Not you."

"License and registration."

"Look, Officer-"

"License and registration."

Sighing, House pulled his wallet from his back pocket and retrieved the necessary documentation. The cop took it wordlessly. After a minute, he spoke.

"Do you know why I pulled you over, Doctor House?"

"I have a vague idea."

"You are improperly attired-"

House cut him off. "I agree, but looking like an idiot isn't illegal. If it was you'd be too busy out rounding up NASCAR Dads and anyone with a misspelled tattoo, to bother with me."

"According to New Jersey state law-"

"According to New Jersey state law, I am only _required_ to wear a DOT approved helmet." He held his up. "Everything else is a recommendation."

The cop glared at him. "Stay put." He walked back to the cruiser and picked up the radio.

One long-winded lecture, angrily delivered, on motorcycle safety later, House was on his way.

Wilson could drive him to work for the next couple of weeks.

Just to be on the safe side.

He got the feeling he'd be seeing a lot more of the local PD.

At 2:02 House limped through the apartment door. He dropped his backpack, kicked off the Godzilla feet, which roared in protest,and collapsed on the couch. If he wanted to get it up tonight, without chemical encouragement, a nap was definitely in order.

He set the alarm on his watch for five, took a Vicodin and sank into a dreamless sleep.

Beep, beep.

House opened his eyes.

Beep, beep.

He stretched, turned off the alarm, and struggled to his feet.

Two hours.

No interruptions. No excuses.

This was going to happen tonight or not at all.

And not at all was not an option.

He grabbed his backpack from it's place on the floor and pulled out the paper bag.

Time to see the fruits of Wilson's humiliation.

House gimped into the bedroom and upended the bag onto the bed.

A bottle of lube and a box of condoms.

Not exactly the depths of depravity.

He grabbed the lube and laughed out loud when he read the label.

Doc's Anal Lube.

Nice.

He dropped it back onto the bed and picked up the condoms.

Ribbed for her pleasure.

He smirked. Old habits die hard.

House shoved the bottle of Doc's and 4 of the condoms (maybe a little overconfident, but, what the hell) under the pillow.

Easy access. No time wasted.

He tossed out the trash, put the rest of the laughably hetero condoms in the bedside drawer and headed into the bathroom to take a shower.

He emerged 15 minutes later, squeaky clean, and got dressed in an ancient pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. He kicked the dirty clothes into the corner and wandered back into the living room.

5:21.

House wondered idly what Wilson was doing, then settled back down on the couch to watch New Yankee Workshop.

He took care of dinner during a Hair Club For Men commercial.

Well, he delegated dinner to The Green Papaya Restaurant.

6 dishes to be delivered promptly at 7:45, charged to the standing account of one Dr. James Evan Wilson.

Seven o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

At 6:15, seven o'clock became a moot point. Wilson burst through the door, slamming it behind him.

"Honey, you're home," said House, startled.

Wilson dropped his briefcase, kicked off his prissy little French size 9s, and wrenched off his tie.

"Let's do this. Now," he growled.

House grinned. "Wilson, you animal."

Wilson dropped his shirt next to his tie, then climbed on to House's lap, straddling him on the couch.

House winced with the sudden pressure on his thigh.

Wilson took no notice, grinding slowly into House's lap.

Cock hardening in his jeans, House grabbed Wilson's face and kissed him, making Wilson shudder and grind down harder. House felt his eyes begin to roll back in his head, and pushed Wilson off far enough to catch his breath.

"If you make me come in my pants, your little shopping extravaganza will have been for nothing."

"Good point," Wilson panted.

"Besides, if you don't get off my leg I'm going to kill you."

Wilson leaped off House's lap as if he'd been burned. "Oh, God. I'm sorry. Are you alright? I just-"

"You can make it up to me. Come on."

House headed for the bedroom.

Within minutes they were both naked, tangled together on the bed, and, to his credit, Wilson had yet to lock himself in the bathroom in terror.

House wondered briefly if Wilson was drunk.

Or high.

Not that it mattered.

He reached under the pillow and grabbed the bottle of lube.

"Are you ready for this?"

Wilson's eyes flew open and he propped himself up on his elbows to look at House properly. "You're asking?" he said, taken a bit aback.

"I'm asking," House replied quietly.

Wilson nodded. "I-"

The doorbell cut him off.

"COME ON!!" House yelled in frustration, as Wilson laughed. He looked at the clock. Ten to seven. "They're fucking early."

Wilson sobered immediately. "They? Who-"

House rolled his eyes. "Relax. It's dinner, not a dominatrix. And they're an _hour_ early."

"You ordered dinner?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Well-"

"Shut up or you can't have any Panang Koong."

"Green Papaya? Nice. Did you get-"

"Yes, I ordered your girly little salad thing. Now excuse me while I go and beat a delivery boy to death."

House limped out of the room.

"You're naked!" Wilson called after him.

"What's your point?" House called back.

"My robe's in the hall closet. I'd like the Green Papaya to continue to welcome our custom."

"Yes, dear."

House opened the closet door, grabbed the robe and put it on.

It stopped slightly higher than mid-thigh.

He felt gayer now than he had with Wilson's cock in his hand.

Oh, well. Go big, or go home.

He flung open the front door.

But in the place of a zitty teenager clutching a bag of Thai food, stood a petite brunette struggling under the weight of a large cardboard box.

It was the most recent, soon to be ex, Mrs. Wilson.

"Greg," she said frostily.

"Julie."

"Well?" she snapped. "Can I come in? This is heavy."

House stepped aside wordlessly. She walked through the door and dropped the box, with a loud thump, on the piano.

"Is James here?" She turned around and, for the first time, really looked at House.

She stiffened. "Did I come at a bad time?"

"Now that you mention it-"

It was at this moment that Wilson materialized from the bedroom, wallet in hand. He was topless and sweaty, hair tousled, dressed in a pair of House's sweats, a bite mark clearly visible on his shoulder.

"It occurred to me that I'm probably supposed to pay for this," he said, extracting assorted bills from his wallet. "Will 40 cover-"

"Hello, James."

Wilson's eyes widened as he looked up from the cash he was counting. "Julie."

"Don't mind me," said House. He limped over to the box on the piano and peered inside. He reached inside and held up a DVD. "The Way We Were? Seriously?"

Wilson stepped toward his wife, hands up in a placating manner. "Julie, I-"

"What's going on, James?"

Wilson looked stricken. "I-"

Julie looked at House, then back to Wilson. "He's wearing your robe. I bought that for you. For our first anniversary. Goddammit, James! What is going on?!"

"Not a hell of a lot, thanks to you," said House, continuing to rummage. He looked at Wilson in horror. "Yanni?"

Wilson glared at him. "Shut up." He turned back to Julie. "It's-"

She cut him off with a head shake. "Don't. I suspected, before, you and him, but, I just, I never really......How long? How long has it been going on? The whole time we were married? Just tell me the truth."

House began to laugh.

"SHUT UP!" yelled Wilson. He turned back to Julie. "No. No, never then. Just....now."

Julie took a deep breath. "The least you could do is be honest. Goodbye, James. My lawyer will be in touch." She looked over at House. "Greg," she said, then walked out the door and closed it gently behind her.

Caught somewhere between shell-shock and rage, Wilson looked at House, who held up another DVD. "Wanna watch Titanic?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen (Wilson)**

I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry.

In the end, I think I make a sound somewhere between the two, and hurry to the bedroom to throw on a t-shirt. I think it's mine, but it could've been House's. I don't know and I don't care.

I'm lacing up sneakers and babbling and really not knowing exactly what it is I'm saying.

"I have get out of here," I can hear myself speaking from somewhere outside my body. "I just need to go somewhere, I need to think, this is...I am..."

House is looking at me, slightly alarmed, mostly amused.

"You're leaving?"

"Yeah, I uh....I need to get out of here for a bit."

Now, he just looks pissed off. His blue eyes flash dangerously.

"You're insane, you realize that?" he all but growls.

I rake a hand through my hair and half-nod, hand already on the doorknob.

I look at him one last time and fight the urge to go to him, have his mouth and hands take away all the pain and confusion I'm feeling at the moment. But in the end, my feet decide for me, and I'm out in the street.

I know that it's irrational for me to be feeling guilty, but I can't help it.

I know I did nothing wrong, and yet I still feel like I did.

Three failed marriages.

_Three._

What the hell is wrong with me that I can't maintain a relationship?

And House. God. I don't even know where to begin with House.

I want him. Possibly more than I've ever wanted anything. And yet, and yet I can't help but wonder if we go into this, if we take our friendship as it is, to the next level, what if I screw it up?

The thought of losing House is almost more than I can take.

I can hear the slap of my feet along the pavement, and see the lights of various shops, offices and apartments.

It's crisp, almost cold, and the rain starts slowly, then pours down in sheets. I'm drenched, shivering, and I keep walking.

No destination but to figure out the thoughts chasing themselves in circles in my head.

I'm a failure.

The mantra seems to follow the pattern of my footsteps...fail-ure...fail-ure....fail-ure.

Work and House are the only things I've got.

And if I lose House....

Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?

Chilled to the bone, and realizing I've no where to go, no one else to turn to, I head back for home.

House is sitting on the couch, legs crossed at the ankles and resting on the coffee table.

He's got a take-out container on his lap, the smell of Thai food is warm, spicy and inviting.

"Don't drip on my hardwood." he says around a mouthful of food.

I just stand there, dripping and shivering, sure he can hear my teeth chattering from here.

"I, uh....we...House. We can't do this."

Slowly, he puts down the aluminum container and turns to face me, his eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"We can't do this." I repeat stupidly.

"You are not going to let Julie goad you into feeling guilty," he states, wiping his hands on my robe.

He's still wearing the robe. My eyes are drawn involuntarily to the deep scarring on his thigh. I can't look away, but he's not paying attention.

"_She_ cheated on you," House reminds me, "_You_ did nothing wrong."

"It doesn't matter," I say dully, trying not to look at him, his long legs jutting out from beneath the hem of the ridiculously short robe, "It just won't work."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Wilson!" he says angrily, "So you're just going to what? Leave? Deny everything you've been feeling?"

I can only shrug. Try to fight back tears. If I cry, I'll never hear the end of it.

"Don't be a moron. You don't know what will work and what won't if you never give it a try."

"What?" I say, blinking rapidly.

"You heard me." he says defiantly.

I fold my arms across my wet chest, "You're just pissed off you won't be getting any."

"Yeah, that's it," House says, rolling his eyes, "God, you really are an idiot sometimes."

"So I've heard."

"Wilson. Listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once," he says slowly, his gaze intent upon my own, "It's not just about the sex. I could've had all the sex I can handle by now. I've got the hookers on speed dial for Christ's sake. And you already know I'm not above making my own kind of magic. All I'm saying is don't throw away an opportunity to find out what might be."

I'm still. Absorbing his words. His meaning.

But part of me still thinks I'm being mocked, and I'm still reeling from the unexpected visit from Julie.

And I'm scared to death that if I go any further, my relationship, friendship, _everything_ I have with House will be lost.

"I'm not gay." Obviously, I'm grasping at straws here, trying for anything that might get me out of this situation. And yet, I desperately want to stay.

He's furious, I can tell by the glint in his eyes, the hard set to his mouth, the way he pushes himself up off the couch and limps towards me.

I take one step backwards and realize too late that he's backed me up against the door. There's no where to go.

He's close. Too close.

I avoid looking into his eyes. Those blue eyes would be the death of me.

"Ok, you're not gay," he agrees, his mouth twisting in a semi-smile, "Bisexual. Experimenting. Whatever the hell you want to call it, Wilson."

House takes a minuscule step-shuffle towards me, and I'm almost certain I can feel the brush of the thin cotton robe against my frozen legs.

"If you can give me one good, legitimate reason not to take this to the next level, I will turn and walk away and we can pretend this never happened," he says quietly and I know I'm in dangerous territory here, "But if you can't...."

I do the one thing I've been trying to avoid. I look into his eyes.

I have never, ever seen eyes this particular shade of blue, and I can see the lust in them, and it's the beginning of the undoing of me, of my self-restraint.

His hand is suddenly in my hair, tangling in the wet strands and pulling my head back. His lips crush against mine, warm against cold, and his tongue pushes it's way inside my mouth, almost forcefully.

I can hear a strange whimpering, and I realize it's coming from my own mouth, a longing, needy sound that is absorbed by House's lips.

I'm no longer cold, but instead, swiftly hot all over. House's tongue does things inside my mouth that I've never experienced before. I can feel it against my teeth, the inside of my cheeks, interlacing with my own tongue. The sensations make me tingle, right from a spot in my lower back, straight down to my toes and back up again.

Breathless, I angle my head just back far enough to look at him again.

"Yes." I say in a rush of air.

"Yes." he echoes and moves back in for another kiss.

Frantically, my hands reach for the belt on the robe, and I push it off his shoulders, my palms gliding down over his chest.

He shoves me backwards against the door and pulls the hem of my shirt up and over my head, throws it aside, all without ever seeming to break the delicious contact of our mouths.

"Bedroom." House says in a low, raspy voice and turns away, confident that I will follow.

And I do.

I quickly lose the wet pants, underwear, socks and shoes. They join the piles of clothes already littering House's bedroom floor, and just this once, I don't think about how I should tidy up the room.

I stand for one brief moment, weighing my options, deciding it's not too late to make a break for it, if I really wanted to.

I don't.

House angles his head towards the bed and I lie down, shivering from both the cold, loss of body contact with him and the fact that I've never been more petrified in my life.

He moves in slowly between my legs, lowers his head and captures my mouth in a kiss once more.

Did I mention he's a great kisser?

He kisses with a desperation and urgency, but also with a powerful possession that says _mine._

My hands slide up and down his back. My blood thunders in my ears.

I can feel him, hard and ready against my stomach. Can feel my own cock, achingly hard in response.

There are no sounds but harsh, ragged breathing and the occasional sticky-kiss sound.

House reaches for the bottle of lubricant and generously coats his fingers.

"Ok?" he asks gently, one finger making teasing circles in a place no one but my doctor has ever touched before.

I grab his wrist, frightened out of my wits, and look at him with wide eyes.

"I'm scared." It takes everything I have to admit that to him.

He smiles.

"Wilson."

Kisses me again, leaving me breathless.

"It's me."

I bite my lower lip and nod.

He slides one of his long, elegant fingers inside me and I realize that it's not so bad. A little pressure, a little uncomfortable, but not as bad as I'd thought.

That is, until he adds a second finger.

These are only fingers. Dear god, what happens when he tries to fuck me??

I can feel his fingers inside me, searching, and then...

"Oh god...." the words are forced out of me as he finds just the right spot.

I watch, transfixed as he tears open the condom packet with his teeth and slowly unrolls it over his cock.

He cups his hand and pumps the bottle once more, allowing liquid to pool in his hand, then spreading it over both himself and me.

I can't take my eyes off him, as he positions himself and slowly angles his hips forward until his cock head is resting against my ass.

His blue eyes find mine and I grab at his waist, trying to pull him deeper.

Agonisingly slowly, he enters me.

Tears form at the corners of my eyes. I'm certain he's going to rip me apart. I feel a sudden sympathy for my second wife, Bonnie, who was in my position seven years ago. And then, only twice. How did she ever endure this kind of pressure?

I can feel tiny tremors coursing through House's body, and I realize how much effort it must be taking him to hold back. I admire his restraint.

He, too, must have some sort of idea what I'm going through, because he takes my cock in his hand and grazes the tip with his thumb.

It feels so good, and I arch my back, open my legs wider and urge him forward.

Inch by inch, slowly and carefully he slides in, until he's as deep as he can be. He is still for a moment, allowing my body to accommodate him and adjust to the pressure.

I watch as House pulls out and thrusts back in. He watches, too.

When he once again manages to find that spot, I feel my whole body spasm, it's wicked. I have never felt a sensation like that before.

I think I can come without him even touching my cock, so long as he doesn't lose contact with that spot.

His head is thrown back, and I can see the veins in his neck as he grits his teeth and begins to thrust faster. He pulls my hips to meet him, and I briefly wonder if I'll have fingertip bruises in the morning.

Then I'm beyond thinking any rational thoughts. All I can think is _more, yes, harder, faster, now_.

Someone is moaning, or perhaps both of us are. It's hard to tell in all the sensation.

House's hips are a blur as he pounds into me, and one hand comes off my hip and grips my cock fiercely, stroking hard and fast and it's an unbelievably short time before I arch again, coming and groaning, and hot spurts into his hand and over my chest.

I can't breathe, can't see, can only feel.

Moments later and House's hands dig almost painfully into my hips as he thrusts one final time, deep, holds me there, shudders, drops his head, whispers something incoherent, collapses.

Several sticky, sweaty minutes pass and we finally regain enough breath to talk, to move.

He pulls out, discards the condom and flops back on the bed. Passes me a t-shirt to clean up with.

"Not gay?" he asks, one hand lazily thrown up onto his forehead.

"Nope." I smile, feeling lightheaded.

I can see House nod in the darkened room. Hear the rain that is still pouring down.

We're both quiet for a while, I don't know what he's thinking, but I'm wondering _what now, what next_ and unsure of how I should act.

An event so....so monumental, to say the least, should require something be done. It's far, far too early for "I love you" and yet, I'd feel incomplete if something wasn't said, wasn't done to make it clear that we have successfully moved from 'just friends' to something more.

I try to rest my head on his shoulder, but he turns and looks at me, eyebrows furrowed.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." I recover swiftly. Obviously, cuddling is not his thing.

I grab the covers and pull them up, but move closer underneath, not cuddling, but close enough that we're almost pressed against each other still.

"Do you have to do that?" he demands.

I stare at him blankly. "Do what?"

"Breathe on me."

"Um..." I turn over, unsure now.

I'm worried. Wondering if I've just made a colossal mistake.

We had sex.

Maybe that doesn't mean anything to House, other than the fact that we had sex.

This is exactly why I didn't want to do this.

Someone is going to end up getting hurt.

Someone is going to be me.

Then, amid the breathy-snoring noises House is making beside me, I feel the weight of his arm over me. I'm pretty sure he's feigning sleep, but so be it.

It wasn't a mistake.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen (House)**

House laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the soft gusts of Wilson's breath against his neck.

Every two and a half seconds.

For the last 45 minutes.

Enough was enough.

House threw the covers back and climbed out of bed. He reached for his cane, then remembered it had been abandoned somewhere in the vicinity of the couch. To dull the ache in his leg he grabbed his pills off the bedside table, and downed two of them in quick succession before replacing the bottle. Then, gritting his teeth, he began to limp heavily toward the door, trying his best not to trip over the assortment of clothes heaped all over the floor.

The he stepped on what felt distinctly like a belt buckle.

"Fuck!"

Wilson stirred, then rolled over and began to snore gently.

House looked at him appraisingly, sprawled out across the bed, hair a mess, drooling on the pillow.

He looked young.

And stupidly innocent.

Which was fitting considering he'd just lost his virginity for the second time.

The stupid part was true enough though.

Getting involved with House.

Wilson was going to get hurt.

Probably more than once.

House knew it.

He hoped Wilson did too.

He wouldn't mean to do it.

Probably.

But he would.

It would happen.

Probably sooner than either of them expected.

But not tonight.

And that had to count for something.

House limped into the hallway and, with considerable effort, bent over and snatched Wilson's ridiculous robe off the floor and put it on.

As he was tying the belt he noticed, for the first time, that the stupid thing was monogrammed.

James Evan Wilson.

J.E.W.

His mouth quirked into a small smile.

Say it loud and say it proud. Shalom.

He continued into the living room, hit the light and kicked aside one of the dinosaur slippers, which roared loudly in the stillness of the apartment, then retrieved his cane.

Sighing with relief as he leaned on it, he made his way over to the piano.

Normally, when he couldn't sleep, he'd sit and play for a while to wind down.

But tonight he'd let Wilson sleep.

Not so much out of consideration for Wilson's beauty sleep, but more out a desire to keep that private for just a little longer.

House cast a critical eye over the Cardboard Box of Doom instead, as if it were a particularly well disguised Trojan Horse, secretly concealing the rest of Wilson's wives and most of his immediate family, ready to jump out at a moment's notice.

He'd meant to finish going through it while Wilson was out having his nervous breakdown, but then the food had arrived and his priorities had abruptly changed.

No time like the present though.

But first a snack.

He wandered into the kitchen and grabbed the leftover prawns and a fork, then headed back to the task at hand.

Mouth full, he peered into the box for the second time that night.

The Way We Were.

Yanni.

Titanic.

He pulled those out and carried on.

Leather-bound copy of Gray's Anatomy. Inscribed "With Love, Mom & Dad."

Yawn.

Knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and assorted other useless dust collectors.

Whatever.

Hitchcock biography.

Unsurprising.

ABBA box set, Best Of Barry Manilow, Celine Dion: Live In Las Vegas.

Clearly ass-fucking was not the gayest thing Wilson was capable of.

3 weeks worth of unopened mail. Including things addressed to 'Occupant.'

Dull.

Jim Carroll Band. 'Catholic Boy.' The last great punk record.

House smiled.

Unexpected. And very much _not_ dull.

Just like Wilson.

And then there were photos.

Wilson and Julie. Looking like they fell out of the LL Bean catalogue.

Skiing.

Skating.

On a picnic.

With Wilson's parents.

What, no horseback riding?

Wilson and Julie.

Laughing.

Looking happy.

House popped another shrimp into his mouth, eschewing the fork in favour of fingers and wiping them, distracted, on Wilson's robe, leaving reddish trails behind.

At the bottom of the pile were the inevitable wedding shots.

They'd eloped to Hawaii. Oahu. A white sand cliche.

Her idea. Thought it was "romantic".

Wilson claimed it was to avoid another House bachelor party.

House knew it was to avoid the need for a Best Man.

And here they were in glorious Kodachrome, dripping in regurgitated "romance".

Complete with hibiscus and pukka shells, on the beach at sunset.

What a bitch.

Wilson's emo-mometer was going to go through the roof when he looked at these.

Great.

House was a lousy shoulder to cry on. Maybe he could get Cameron on Weepy Wilson duty.

Kill two birds.

He finished the prawns and was putting everything away, when he noticed his own face staring back at him. He peeled the picture off the bottom of the box and took a closer look.

It had been taken at Wilson and Julie's housewarming party.

Wilson had embarrassedly handed him an invitation shaped like a 'Welcome' mat and said, "You don't have to come."

But he did. Partially in support of Wilson, but mostly to annoy Julie.

In the picture they were standing in the backyard, under the oak tree in the back left corner, smoking cigars and laughing, banished from the house and forced out into the cold November afternoon.

Totally unaware of the intruding photographer.

Totally unaware of anything except each other, if the photo was to be believed.

_Cigars_, for Chrissake.

Freud would have a field day.

He set that picture aside and packed everything else back up. Leaving the prawn container and fork sitting on the piano, he limped back over to the couch and sat down, laying his cane on the coffee table.

He looked at the photo in his hand, then around at the mess in the room.

Wilson's shoes, his briefcase, his hideous tie, his discarded shirt.

All laying where ever they'd fallen.

It was vaguely surreal.

He felt his cock twitch as he thought about it.

That feeling.

Pushing himself inside.

The heat. The tightness.

It seemed rawer somehow than it ever had in a lifetime of sex with women.

It seemed......more.

God.

Fucking Wilson was turning him into a pussy.

Already.

Christ.

House looked at the clock.

One a.m.

Better try get some sleep.

_Try _being the operative word.

Leaving the picture on the coffee table, he gimped back into the bedroom, avoiding the belt buckle this time, and set the alarm for eight o'clock. He propped his cane against the chair in the corner, dropped Wilson's robe on the floor and climbed back into bed.

Wilson immediately snuggled towards him.

House jabbed him sharply in the shoulder, and he opened his eyes blearily. "Wha?"

"Roll over. You're breathing on me."

"Sorry," said Wilson sleepily, flopping over the other way.

"You should be. Now shut up and let me sleep."

"G'night House."

"Goodnight Wilson."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen (Wilson)**

I must've fallen asleep at some point, though I don't remember.

House is waking me up, demanding that I stop breathing on him.

Again.

Funny how the man can sleep through fire alarms and ringing cell phones, but my _breathing_ keeps him awake.

The thought makes me smile.

The room smells of sweat and musk and sex, and I make a mental note to wash the sheets.

My cock stirs in remembrance, and I know I'll never get back to sleep now.

Rolling over, slowly and quietly, as to not wake House, I take the opportunity to look at him.

It's still raining and every few minutes a lightning strike will illuminate the room brightly enough for me to see House perfectly.

I'm not entirely sure I know what I've gotten myself into with House, but I have no regrets.

He cracks open one eye, still a vivid blue in the darkened room.

"Yeeeessss?" he drawls.

And unless I'm very much mistaken, there is a note of expectancy in his voice.

In lieu of an answer, I roll on top of him and press my lips to his.

House's cock is already hard against mine, and I love that I can create that desire in him.

I rock my hips against him, increasing the pressure and friction of cock against cock.

The sensations are delicious, and I can't help but moan softly against his lips.

"Ohh..."

Wait a sec.

What do I call him in bed?

'House' just seems so....something.

"Oh Greg," I try, but the words sound strange.

Apparently House thinks so too. He goes still.

"What did you call me?"

Suddenly, I'm nervous.

"G...Greg?"

His eyebrows furrow.

"Why would you do that?"

"It is your name, isn't it?"

"Why would you choose now to start calling me by my first name, _James_?"

I shrug, very aware of the absurdity of such a conversation as I am naked and straddling him.

"Just..." he begins, and I'm petrified he's come to his senses and is going to put a stop to everything.

"Just don't." he says and kisses me once more.

I slide down his body, making a trail with fingers, lips and tongue.

House tangles his fingers in my hair as I wrap my fist around the base of his erection, then flick my tongue around the head.

He tastes of heat and salt as I slowly allow him to slide inside my mouth.

My own throbbing cock is demanding attention, and I give it a long stroke, groaning around House's cock.

I graze the underside with my teeth, then suck firmly on the head, trying desperately to remember everything any woman has ever done to make me feel good.

And by the way House is thrashing about on the bed, grabbing fistfuls of bedsheets and arching his hips, it's working.

"Ah, fuck, Wilson..." he says through gritted teeth and that sound is the most erotic thing I've ever heard in my life.

I've had women talk dirty to me before, but it always seemed contrived, designed for my pleasure only.

House sounds real, like he can't _help_ but let the words spill from his mouth.

I suck harder and faster, moving my head up and down, caressing his good leg with one hand, while feverishly tugging at my cock with my other.

I take my mouth away for a second to groan and gasp as I come, hard, fast and wet over my hand and onto the bed.

"Wilson," House says again, pleading this time. Looking at me with those blue eyes.

Quickly, I envelope him in my mouth, stroking and sucking until he's breathless and heaving and filling my mouth in hot spurts.

Bone weary and satisfied, I crawl back up and collapse beside him.

"Wow." I manage to croak.

"Wow is right," he says with a grin, "Why didn't we do this years ago?"

Listening to the rain, the thunder, and House's breathing become slower and more regular, I let myself fall asleep once more.

*~*~*~*~

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Groggily, I force open my eyes to find and destroy the source of that ear-splitting beeping that's interrupting my comfortable sleep.

House is snoring beside me, oblivious.

"Eight o'clock!" I hear myself screech, throwing back the covers and leaping out of bed with an alacrity that surprises even me.

House lazily stretches out a hand and hits the snooze button. Falls back asleep almost immediately.

"I'm going to be late!"

I feel like the White Rabbit from _Alice in Wonderland_ as I race around the room, grabbing discarded clothes and shoes.

I take the world's quickest shower, allowing only time to wash the hair that I know looks a mess from being out in the rain, from House's hands raking through it.

I'm a little disappointed that I won't have time to blow dry my hair, but there's just not enough time. I make do with mousse and some fancy finger-styling.

It isn't until I'm quickly brushing my teeth that I realize how I look.

_Well-fucked _would be a more than appropriate description.

My lips are swollen and abraded from House's kisses. No amount of Chap Stick or moisturizer is going to be able to conceal that fact.

My eyes are looking tired, but there's also that unmistakable glow just behind the surface.

And I feel like I've spent a week on horseback. I have to walk on legs that don't completely want to close.

Anyone with an eye would take one look at me and know exactly how I spent my evening.

Regardless, I have to go to work.

And I have to go _now._

I rush to the kitchen, slipping into my jacket and hoping House has at least managed to turn on the coffee by now.

He's sitting in his usual chair, customary dress shirt thrown haphazardly over t-shirt, boxers and his reading glasses. He's skimming the morning paper.

He looks incredible.

I stop, staring at him and wondering if I shouldn't just call in sick for once and convince him to spend the day in bed with me. It shouldn't be too hard a sell, after all.

"Morning," he says, eyes glimmering.

"Coffee?" I ask, hopeful.

He nods towards the counter and turns his attention to the paper once more.

"Listen, I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to make breakfast this morning," I start, while filling up my travel mug and getting ready to head out the door.

House looks at me with a wolfish smile.

"As much as I love your pancakes, I'll take a blow job and a bagel any day."

I feel familiar heat rise up in my cheeks.

"Yes, well," I stammer, juggling briefcase and mug. "By the way, didn't you get the memo that the board has canceled 'Pantless Fridays' due to health and safety regulations?"

"Bureaucratic fun-suckers," he grins. "Tough night at the rodeo, Lane Frost?"

I duck my head and try to ignore him.

"At least I lasted the full eight seconds," I mutter.

"Barely." House chuckles.

I'm lost for a second. Should I kiss him goodbye? Shake hands? Leave?

He looks at me expectantly and puckers his lips. He has that uncanny ability to read my mind.

I lean forward and give him a quick peck on the lips.

"You've gotta be kidding me." he says and I look at him, shocked.

"What?"

"After what we did last night, and you give me the kind of kiss you'd give your Grandma? Wilson, you prude."

The flush deepens. My tie is too tight.

I lean forward again, only this time, I notice that the arm of House's shirt is bearing an ugly brownish stain.

"What's this?" I ask, fingers on the soft fabric of the shirt.

House looks at the shirt as though seeing it for the first time.

Sniffs experimentally at the stain.

"Coffee."

"You can't wear that shirt to work with a coffee stain on it!" I say, exasperated at the thought.

He shrugs. "Sure I can. I've got a jacket."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Look. Just....just leave it here and I'll wash it for you. I don't know if I can get the stain out..."

"But this is my favourite shirt!"

Resisting the urge to throw my hands in the air, I level him with a glare.

"I don't care. You're not wearing it. If you have no clean shirts, borrow one of mine. Leave the dirty shirt here."

He stands up, looking defiant and wrestles his arms out of the shirt, tossing it on the chair opposite him.

Without any warning, he grabs my face between two warm hands and pulls me in for a kiss.

It's slow, deliberate, delicious. He tastes like the bitterness of coffee and the sweetness of peanut butter.

Pulling away, he looks at me, "_That's _how you kiss goodbye."

*~*~*~*~

I make the drive to the hospital in record time and attempt to pull into my assigned parking space when I realize it's already occupied.

Who do I know that drives a red Ford Escort?

I'm in my car, looking at the offending vehicle, in _my _parking spot, when someone beeps their horn behind me and I'm forced to move on.

Right. As I find a spot miles away from the door, not looking forward to the prospect of having to walk the distance in the rain, I remember I lent my spot to Kenzi, the temporary receptionist who sprained her ankle rollerblading.

Kenzi.

Who names their kid Kenzi anyway?

I shake my head and think I must be spending too much time with House, if I'm entertaining thoughts like these.

I'm disgruntled and wet and mostly upset that all my careful finger-styling has gone to waste, now that my hair is flattened to my skull and dripping down my overcoat.

I walk through the front doors of the hospital and stop dead in my tracks, realization hitting me full-force in the solar plexus and sucking the breath right out of me.

_I had sex with House._

_I work with House._

_Lots of other people work with House, too._

_Chase, Cameron and Foreman._

_The brown paper bag._

_Oh, dear god, what have I done?_

People are pushing behind me and I move automatically, allowing the crowd to carry me along.

Cuddy comes out of her office and heads straight towards me.

I look longingly at the elevator, which could theoretically take me to the safety of my own office, but it's too late.

"You. My office. Now." she says sternly, and walks away, her Prada heels clicking on the linoleum.

Once inside, she turns to take a closer look at me, her face twisting into a look of concern.

"My god. What happened to your face?" she breathes, fingers tracing the red rash-like pattern around my mouth and cheeks.

"Allergic reaction?" I say, trying to make it sound like a statement of fact, rather than a question.

"To House's mouth, maybe?" Cuddy says sardonically, with the hint of a smile.

Oh, shit. _She knows._

I blush again and look at my shoes.

"I knew it!" she exclaims.

"You knew?" I ask in disbelief.

"Of course I knew. You'd have to be blind, dumb and deaf not to know."

"What?" I'm confused.

"Oh, Wilson, come on," Cuddy smiles, "The long looks, the proximity of the two of you in any given situation, the way he harasses you like a little kid and you put up with it."

There's no arguing with that, I suppose.

"I just hope you know what you're getting into," she says softly, and it's a question I've asked myself countless times.

"What do you mean?" I ask stupidly, wanting to hear it from someone else's perspective for a change.

"This is House." is all she offers by way of explanation.

And somehow that's enough.

Those three little words sum up everything.

But then her eyes soften again and she smiles, though somewhat sadly.

"And you're Wilson. And if anybody knows House, it's you."

Right. Well, thanks for your help, Dr. Cuddy.

I make a point of looking at my watch, and run distracted fingers through my hair before remembering that it's dripping wet, and now inevitably standing up in disheveled spikes.

"If that's all..."

Her lips twist into a thoughtful look and she nods.

"It better not affect your work." she adds as an afterthought.

*~*~*~*~

Once inside my office, I hang up the sodden overcoat and give my hair another quick go with the comb.

I shrug into my lab coat and remind myself that I am now Dr. James Wilson.

Not House's sex-toy.

Unfortunately.

But I need to be all business. Keep the professional separate from the personal.

Right then.

The way I see it, there are two ways of going about this.

One: I can take over all the diagnostic tests that I would usually delegate, and thereby stay out of the way of House and his underlings.

Two: I can take it on the chin and storm his office and get all the humiliation out of the way once and for all.

Option one it is then.

I've got more than enough to keep me busy today, and I feel like occupying my hands and brain would be a good idea.

I have a radionuclide scan, an endoscopy and two biopsies.

That should take me through to lunch at the very least.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19 (House)**

House watched in amusement as Wilson flew out the door and into the rain, briefcase held over his head in a feeble attempt to protect himself from the elements.

In the immortal words of Bugs Bunny, what a maroon.

He sat back down and returned to the paper.

Work wasn't going anywhere.

He could afford to take his time.

He finished his breakfast and set the dishes in the sink, leaving the paper spread out over the table, then stretched, wincing with the strain.

It had been a long time since he'd fucked the night away.

60 minutes was usually his limit. Any longer and the pros charge double.

He was a little out of shape.

Nothing a little practice couldn't cure.

He grinned wolfishly at the memory of Wilson under him, legs hooked around his waist, urging him deeper.

Practice makes perfect, after all.

He glanced down at the erection now tenting his boxers.

God. It was like being in college again.

Viagra was for losers.

He tucked it into his waistband and took a closer look at the t-shirt he was wearing.

What _was_ that?

He brushed at the unknown splotch.

Crusty.

Gross. He was _wearing_ the come rag.

House quickly yanked the t-shirt off over his head and did a B.O. spot check.

A shower couldn't hurt.

Grabbing yesterday's coffee stain as he passed, he limped into the bathroom and dumped both items in the laundry hamper.

He turned the shower on and while he waited for it to warm up he looked at himself in the mirror.

His hair was no more or less rumpled than usual, his face no more or less unshaven, eyes the same blue as always, but something looked....different.

Better.

Kind of like....happiness.

Well. Whaddaya know?

House leaned his cane against the sink, dropped his shorts and stepped into the shower.

First things first.

Hot water cascaded over his back and shoulders as he grasped his slightly flagging erection and gave it a few strokes, conjuring images of the night before.

He came quickly, leaning against the wall for support, and wondered idly if Wilson was flexible enough to get his legs up over House's shoulders.

Put that right at the top of the list of things to find out.

He went through the rest of his shower routine, stepped carefully out, toweled off and hobbled to the bedroom to get dressed.

He threw his cane and the wet towel on the bed, then grabbed a fresh pair of underwear out of the drawer and put them on.

He pulled on his jeans and an old Ramones t-shirt, then went to the closet for a button-down to throw on over it.

There weren't any to be had.

Tsk, tsk. Wilson was seriously shirking his duties as hausfrau.

There were however, several, only mildly dirty, shirts currently littering the bedroom floor.

He hooked the nearest one with his cane and gave it a thorough sniff.

Good enough.

He shrugged it on, took a pair of socks out of the dresser and sat down on the bed to put those on too.

He'd only managed one when his cell phone rang.

The Imperial March.

Cuddy.

House answered. "What?"

"Where are you?"

"At home." He put on his other sock. "Miss me?"

Cuddy chose not to dignify that. "Get in here. You have a case."

"I do, do I?"

"You do. I'll fill you in when you get here."

"Yes, mein fuhrer!"

"Just hurry up."

She hung up and House slid the phone back into his pocket. It was then that he noticed the lump at the foot of the bed.

Shit.

Popsy.

He'd forgotten about Popsy.

He reached under the covers and pulled him out.

In all his wretched, pink glory.

Popsy was the only stuffed animal House had been allowed as a child, his father having deemed most toys too "sissy" for his son.

But Popsy had been a gift from Nana Barrett, who had died shortly thereafter. Stricken by the loss of her mother, Blythe House had insisted Popsy be allowed to remain.

And remain he did.

It was one of the only battles House's father had ever lost.

Popsy was a symbol of victorious rebellion.

Granted, _now_ he looked like shit.

He was missing an eye.

And his nose.

Most of his fur had rubbed off sometime before disco died.

He hadn't aged well.

But looks weren't everything.

House gave Popsy an affectionate look and sighed.

Popsy was an embarrassment of epic proportions.

Wilson could _never_ know.

Never.

Ever.

This had been a close call.

Too close.

He gave Popsy a long look. "Sorry about this. It's not you. It's me."

He stood up and carried the rabbit over to the closet, wrapped him in an ugly old sweater, and shoved him down into the far back corner.

House glanced at his watch.

9:26.

Time to go.

The drive to work was uneventful. The same idiots who forgot how to drive every time it rained had forgotten again, and, thanks to an accident in the city centre, traffic was bumper to bumper.

He arrived at the hospital shortly after 10.

Cuddy met him in the foyer and handed him a file while he was still shaking the rain off his jacket.

"Good morning to you too," he muttered.

"20 year old male with Angelman Syndrome."

House waited. "And?"

"And something's wrong."

"_Other_ than AS."

"Other than AS."

"Such as?"

"He's been vomiting, seems to have trouble hearing..."

"Even the adorably disabled can get the flu. Why is this my problem?"

"His parents are on the board-"

"And you're using me to kiss their asses. Fine. Bring on the Puppet Kid."

Cuddy looked wary. "That easy?"

"That easy. I'm feeling generous this morning."

She shot him a knowing look. "About that; I saw Wilson-"

He cut her off. "I know what you're gonna say. It'll never work. I'm a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, he's the homecoming queen. But our love-"

Cuddy blinked in surprise. "You love him?"

House was temporarily wrong-footed. "I-What?"

"You're in love with Wilson?"

He recovered quickly. "I love anyone who'll let me put that many different body parts inside them."

"Okaaay. That was more than I needed-"

"Really? Cause it was _exactly_ what _I _needed."

"Stop talking now. What I was _going_ to say was, I'm happy for you-"

"I'm touched."

"_But_. You are a representative of this hospital, as is Wilson. _You_ are also a jealous, spoiled, selfish, _childish_ nightmare-"

"Am not."

"And this relationship cannot affect your work. You are doctors first. Everything else is secondary."

"I couldn't agree more. Can I go and _do_ some doctoring now, or do I have to keep basking in the glow of your unconditional support?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes and shooed him away. "Go. Heal."

House limped to the elevator, humming under his breath, case file clutched in his free hand.

Chase, Cameron and Foreman were sitting at the table in the conference room drinking coffee when he came in singing.

_"I know what boys like, I know what guys want, I know what boys like, I got what boys like..."_

Cameron flushed a a shade of red found only at the molten core of the earth, Chase suddenly found his cuticles _fascinating, _and Foreman cocked an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction.

He threw the file on the table. "We have a case."

Foreman reached for the folder. "What are we looking at?"

"20 year old male with Angelman Syndrome."

Chase looked up expectantly. "And?"

"_And_ he's sick."

"Just _sick_?" Cameron chimed in, still not making eye contact.

"Mommy and Daddy are sure of it."

"Symptoms?" asked Foreman.

"Presents with vomiting and some hearing loss."

Three pairs of eyes looked at him with disdain.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Foreman demanded.

House shook his head and took the file back. "No joke. Our esteemed Dean of Medicine has requested that I give this patient my personal attention. Mommy and Daddy have deep pockets."

Cameron looked at him challengingly. "Since when do you toady for Cuddy?"

Someone was pissed that her Hope Chest was suddenly empty.

"_I_ don't," he said emphatically. "Go forth and kiss ass. Get a history between puckers."

"Fine." Cameron stood and headed for the door. House looked pointedly at Chase and Foreman, who'd remained in their seats.

Chase's eyes widened. "You want all of us to go?"

House glared at him.

Chase jumped to his feet. "Right. We're off then."

House handed the file back to Foreman. "Give the kid some Gravol and send him home."

40 minutes later they returned.

House was sitting at his desk watching an episode of 'Retarded Animal Babies' on Newgrounds. He hit pause and looked up. "Junior on his way home?"

"They want to see _you_," said Cameron.

"Well, they _can't_ see me. They've seen _you_. What did you find out?"

"Nothing we didn't already know," Foreman answered. "Richie Folchuk suffers from severe AS. Seizures, sleep disturbances, strabismus, gait ataxia, you name it. Developmentally he's around two years old. He has a six word vocabulary."

Cameron smiled sadly. "He's sweet, really. You can see why people used to describe children with AS as angels. Always smiling, laughing. Completely happy."

House rolled his eyes. "It's not _happiness_ if you have nothing to compare it to. It's a symptom, not an emotion."

Cameron shot him an icy look but said nothing. Chase flipped through his notes.

"He takes anticonvulsants for the seizures, and in the past 2 years he's been on Emeside, Mebaral and Depokene, all with varying degrees of success. Richie is currently on Mysoline, which his parents say is working well. He also takes laxatives regularly, and participates in every kind of therapy known to man. Physio, speech therapy, hydrotherapy, even _music_ therapy. I don't know why they bother. None of it makes any difference."

Cameron looked appalled. "They _bother_ because he's their _son,_ and they _love_ him!"

Chase had the good sense to look embarrassed. "I just meant-"

"The point," Foreman cut in, "is that we have no evidence of any additional illness. Other than his parents contention that something's wrong. And when we tried to explain that without visible symptoms there's not much we can do, they shut down altogether and insisted on speaking to you personally."

As if on cue, House's phone rang.

Cuddy.

He picked it up grudgingly. "What?"

"The Folchuks are in my office. They say they haven't seen you at all. What happened to _feeling generous_?"

"The feeling dissipates the longer my body goes without orgasm."

"House! You agreed-"

He sighed. "Tell them I'll be in their son's room in 5 minutes."

He limped into Richie Folchuk's room 15 minutes later.

"Hi!" exclaimed Richie, ginning broadly, hands flapping merrily.

"Hi." House looked to the well dressed couple standing next to the bed. "You wanted to see me, here I am. What exactly do you expect me to do?"

The Folchuks seemed stunned.

"We, our son, he's not well," Mr. Folchuk stammered.

House looked down at the young man on the bed, who was happily chewing on his blanket, then back to his parents.

"Obviously. He has AS."

"No!" cried Mrs. Folchuk. "Not just that. He's sick. I _know_ he's sick. I _know_ it. Please. Just examine him."

"Hi!" said Richie.

"Hi," said House. He turned back to Richie's mother. "My team-"

"Your team is not _you_, Doctor House. We brought our son to see _you_. Please." Mr. Folchuk raked a hand through his gray hair. "Just look."

House didn't respond but instead turned back to Richie. "Richie, I'm Doctor House. I want you to look at me and not move okay?"

Richie grinned even wider. "Hi!"

"Yeah. Hi. Look at me, okay? Watch my finger."

He passed his finger in front of the kid and watched as he attempted to follow it. After a minute Richie's eyes began to drift in different directions.

Alternating strabismus then.

Nothing new there.

And then the kid's left eye twitched, up and to the right.

Not a drift.

A twitch.

Hmm.

It did it again.

House grinned.

He limped over and grabbed a reflex hammer out of the drawer, then hobbled back to the bed.

"What are you doing now?" demanded Mrs. Folchuk.

"Taking you seriously. You said he was vomiting right?"

"Yes."

"And his hearing seems off?"

"That's right," added the kid's father.

House maneuvered Richie to the edge of the bed and gave him a sharp rap on the knee with the hammer.

His leg barely moved.

House looked up. "I know what's wrong with your son."

House limped heavily through the door of the conference room.

"Puppet Kid has a brain tumor."

He pulled his Vicodin out of his pocket and swallowed two.

Chase, Cameron and Foreman stared at him for a second, then all began to speak at once.

"There's no evidence-"

"How did you-"

"A brain tumor?!"

"His left eye twitched," House said calmly.

Foreman looked unimpressed. "An eye twitch? That's all? The kid has strabismus. His eyes are all over the place."

"There's a difference between a drift and a twitch. And I didn't say that was all."

"Well? What then?" snapped Cameron impatiently.

"Hyperactive deep tendon reflexes are a hallmark of Angelman Syndrome. Richie Folchuk scored a _one_. Add that and the twitch to the vomiting and hearing loss..."

Chase spoke up. "But a tumor would present with-"

"Seizures? Changes in speech and personality?" House interrupted.

Chase sighed. "All masked by his AS."

"Yup. Give him a neuro-angiogram and a PET scan. Biopsy what you find."

They hurried off and House poured himself a cup of coffee from Wilson's snooty machine, then gimped into his office to finish his cartoons.

The rest of the day passes quickly, in a flurry of tests and results.

Richie Folchuk did have a tumor. On his Pineal Gland, to be specific.

They were still waiting for the results of the biopsy, but, benign or malignant, Puppet Kid would most likely live to be Puppet Old Guy.

House found himself oddly pleased by that.

Wilson's stupid influence.

Which reminded him...

He headed into the conference room. "Chase!"

Chase looked up expectantly from his lap-top. "Yeah?"

"I need you to go and get a blood kit."

Chase eyed him suspiciously. "_Alriiiight_. Why? Richie-"

"It's not for Richie."

"Then who's it for?" put in Cameron. "We don't have any other patients."

"It's for me. I need a complete blood work-up." He leered at her. "Wilson won't let me ride bareback without a clean bill of health. One of his little quirks."

Chase turned red once again. "I'll be right back," he muttered and fled the room.

Foreman eyed House coolly. "Are you done yet? It's getting old. Besides, you banging Wilson is hardly a revelation. I'm more surprised it _took you this long_."

House looked at Foreman admiringly. "Was that a slur on my potency?"

"Call it what you want," Foreman smirked, "But if I were you I'd have hit that years ago."

"Is this your way of coming out of the closet?" House deadpanned. "Cause that's kinda gross."

"No," said Foreman. "It my way of calling _you_ a pussy."

They looked at each other for a minute, then chuckled. Foreman glanced at the clock. "I'm going to see if the results of the biopsy are in."

House nodded and Foreman was gone.

He turned to Cameron. "You're quiet. Don't you want to congratulate me on my deep emotional breakthrough?"

She held his gaze steadily. "Just what _is_ going on with you and Wilson?"

"You want details? Descriptions of sweaty, writhing bodies? Cameron, I'm shocked."

Cameron flushed. "No!"

"Too bad," said House seriously. "Because nothing else is your business."

He stood up and began to pull one arm out of his shirt, as Chase walked through the door with the blood kit.

When he was done, House put his shirt back on while Chase bagged the vials of blood.

Cameron was silent.

She'd get over it.

He looked at his watch.

5 o'clock.

Time to go home.

He limped through the apartment door at twenty to six, tired and hungry and damp from the still driving rain.

The apartment was dark and empty, and he felt a faint and irrational ripple of fear run down his spine as he turned on the lights.

Which he immediately dismissed as ridiculous.

Wilson would be there when he got there.

House dropped his jacket over the back of the couch and hobbled into the kitchen to grab a beer and the last of the leftover Thai food.

He jammed the beer under his arm and carried the food carefully over to the couch, then sat down heavily and turned on the TV, settling on Dr. Phil.

Wilson struggled through the door as the credits rolled.

"Where were you?" House called. "I'm hungry."

He heard Wilson sigh and toe his shoes off. "I brought dinner." He set a large pizza box on the coffee table.

House fell on the pizza like a ravenous animal.

"You're welcome," said Wilson wearily. He took his coat off and hung it in the closet, then collapsed on the couch next to House, who gestured, mouth full, at the pizza box.

Wilson shook his head. "You go ahead. I'm too tired to eat."

They sat in comfortable silence while House demolished the pizza and Wilson watched him; then House got up and limped, caneless, into the kitchen. He took two beers from the fridge, then returned to the living room and dropped one into Wilson's lap.

Looking surprised and grateful, Wilson mumbled "Thanks."

"Drink your beer," said House, taking a long pull on his own.

And Wilson did. He took a long drink, then looked at House, unsure. "Are we, ah, _doing_ anything this weekend?"

House cocked an eyebrow. "_Doing _anything?"

"Yeah, uh-"

House looked at him blankly.

"Never mind," Wilson muttered, and took another drink.

"I need shoes," said House finally.

"Shoes?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Shoes it is."

They settled back into silence and watched a bad network edit of 'Blood Simple.'

When the movie was over House shut the TV off and turned to Wilson. "Put some music on."

Wilson shook his head. "Oh, no. That's all you. You'll just make fun of anything I put on anyway."

House rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean put on any of that garbage you call music, I meant put on something of _mine_. I'd like to keep dinner down, thanks."

Wilson gave him a dirty look but got up and headed for the stereo and CDs regardless. He hit the overhead light on the way, leaving the room in darkness, but for the glow from the kitchen.

He took his time going through House's collection, the made his choice and sat back down.

Carole King's voice filled the room.

_**"Tonight you're mine completely,**_

_**You give your love so sweetly,**_

_**Tonight the light of love is in your eyes,**_

_**But will you love me tomorrow?"**_

House smiled softly in the dark, unseen by Wilson, who was refusing to look in his direction.

What a girl. God.

They sat, listening, until the song ended, then House stood up and headed for the stereo.

Wilson watched him expectantly as he swapped CDs and hit 'Play.'

The opening riff of 'Paradise By The Dashboard Light' ripped through the quiet of the room.

"Very funny," Wilson snapped.

House smirked. "Don't be a baby." He changed the disc again and sat back down, leg pressed flush against Wilson's.

James Brown began to sing.

_**"Try me, try me,**_

_**Darlin' tell me I need you,**_

_**Try me, try me**_

_**And your love will always be true,**_

_**Oh I need you..."**_

"House," began Wilson, in a low voice.

"Shut up."

_**"Hold me, hold me,**_

_**I want you right here by my side..."**_

The song continued and before he was really aware of it, House found his arm around Wilson's shoulders, drawing him closer to his chest.

_**"Walk with me, talk with me,**_

_**I want you to stop my heart from cryin'**_

_**Walk with me, talk with me,**_

_**And your love stop my heart from dyin'**_

_**I need you."**_

House sighed, his breath ruffling Wilson's hair.

He was in trouble.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20 (Wilson)**

The rest of my day was spent in such a whirlwind that I was reminded _why _I delegate.

Elbowing my way into my office, with my hands full of patient files, I had to admit that I felt a niggle of disappointment that I hadn't seen House since breakfast.

Yes, I was purposely keeping myself busy, but that didn't explain why House hadn't barged into my office, either demanding that I buy him lunch, or that we have a quickie on my desk.

Both of which I would have seriously considered.

I hung up my lab coat and rolled up my sleeves, preparing to tackle the heaps of paperwork littering my desk, when my phone rang.

Anticipating House, I answered with a smile.

Which quickly faded as I heard the cool voice of my third wife.

"James."

_Shit._

"Julie. Look, I...uh...I"

"I don't care. The reason I'm calling is to let you know that I've gone over the furniture and decided what's mine. You can come over next week to see what you want."

I almost tell her that she can have it all, but there are two very nice dressers that I would really like.

"Okay. But maybe we should talk about last night..."

I can hear her sigh heavily on the other end.

"Frankly, James, I'm not surprised. Just...disappointed, I guess. You of all people should know what kind of manipulation House is capable of."

I'm not sure what to say to that, and thankfully, Julie doesn't give me a chance to.

"Goodbye James." she says stiffly, then disconnects.

I sit for a moment, receiver still in hand, then focus my attention on work.

After completing roughly a third of the paperwork, I decide a break is in order.

I stand up, put my hands on my back and stretch the kinks out, then grab my wallet and head out the door.

Maybe House has time for a coffee.

He's not in his office though, and judging by the looks Cameron is shooting me, now is not a good time to go in and find out where he is.

In the cafeteria (still no sign of House) Cuddy catches up with me.

"Seen House lately?" I ask, aiming for casual.

Her smile tells me I don't fool her for a second.

"I gave him a case." she replies, blowing steam from a paper cup of tea.

I'm bewildered as she explains the patient. I can't figure out exactly what about this case requires House's attention, or more importantly, that he would give it at all.

Cuddy reaches over and pats my hand.

"Maybe you're a good influence on him."

I snort my disbelief. "Yeah and maybe he's just screwing with us both."

"Wouldn't put it past him. You get the better deal, though." she says, tilting her head.

*~*~*~*~

I'm exhausted, it's still raining and I walk to my parking space before realizing that I had to park the next town over.

By the time I reach my car, I'm soaking, shivering and anxious to get home.

I crank both the heater and the radio, and sing along to the songs I know.

Halfway home, the words I'm so tunelessly singing start to sink in.

_**'I don't care if Monday's blue**_  
_**Tuesday's grey and Wednesday, too**_  
_**Thursday, I don't care about you**_  
_**It's Friday, I'm in love'**_

For a moment, I smile and think '_what a coincidence. It is Friday. I am in love.'_

Hold on, now.

Love?

Who said anything about love?

Not me, I don't think.

Certainly not House.

Could I actually be in love with him?

Lust is one thing, and I will readily admit to that, but _love?_

Dear god, I think I might be.

The realization hits hard and I have to pull over. I rest my head against the steering wheel and try to put things in perspective.

So many questions.

Do I love House? What is love? Do I still love Julie? Did I ever really love her? If I do love House, what does that mean? Could he ever love me?

I'm getting nothing for my questions other than a headache.

I look out the rain-streaked window and see that I've conveniently pulled over in front of Cristellis Pizzeria.

Food.

That's what we need.

I'll order a large sausage and pepperoni pizza (House's favourite) and let things figure themselves out.

They will figure themselves out, right?

*~*~*~*~

"Where were you? I'm hungry." House demands the second I'm in the door.

Hungry, even though I see that he's finished off the remainder of the Thai food from last night.

Wearily, I set the pizza box in front of him on the table, and proceed to take off my sodden jacket, then all but collapse on the couch beside him.

Suddenly, all the thoughts are swirling around in my head again, chasing themselves, and I'm not hungry.

House gets up and limps to the fridge and back again, unceremoniously dropping a beer in my lap.

That was...unexpected. Nice, but unexpected.

We have a short conversation about nothing and watch movie before House shuts the TV off and instructs me to put some music on.

"Oh, no. That's all you. You'll just make fun of anything I put on anyway."

He tells me to put on one of _his _CDs and it's obvious there's no use arguing with him, so I get up to do it and turn off the light as I do.

Carole King. 'Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow'. Like asking without asking.

Perfect.

House's response is 'Paradise By The Dashboard Light'.

"Very funny."

But then, even more unexpected than the beer, is House's next choice.

'Try Me' by James Brown.

Of course, it could just be that he simply likes the song.

But then his arm is around me, pulling me closer and I have to wonder.

Sitting in the dark, enjoying the warmth of his body next to mine, the music on the CD player, it's all a very romantic picture.

And so _not_ House that I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't actually been sitting right beside him.

"I...uh, I got a call from Julie today." I say, needing to say something.

I feel him tense beneath me.

"What did the Wicked Witch of the West have to say? Did you tell her all the details of our sweet, sweet lovemaking?"

I have to chuckle.

"Not exactly. She wants me to come over next week and pick out what furniture I want."

In one sweeping movement, House has me on my back on the couch, he's stretched out above me and I have but a second to wonder how often he's practiced that move.

"I don't want to talk about Ghoulie anymore." he says, lowering his head and capturing my lips in a kiss.

I pull away after a moment, and he proceeds to start kissing my ear, undoing the buttons of my shirt at the same time.

"Where were you today?" I ask, arching my back into his touch.

"I had a case."

"Yeah, Cuddy told me. The kid with AS? Kind of a cakewalk, wasn't it? Why'd you take it? Oh, god that feels good."

He pulls his head back far enough to look me in the eyes.

"I was in a good mood."

I feel my eyes widen.

"Because of me?" I ask, breath sticking in my throat at the thought.

"Wilson," he says, lowering his head again and biting at my lower lip, "Can you shut up for five minutes?"

And five minutes is about all it takes.

He's grinding against me, kissing my mouth, ears, neck.

Neither one of us are prepared to move and relinquish the contact our bodies are making, and so it's all rubbing, kissing, grinding and the soft rustle of clothes against clothes.

When it's over, he rests against me, both of us sweaty, sticky and breathless.

"I haven't done that since I was 15. I'd forgotten how much fun dry humping can be," House laughs, then looks down at himself, "Except for the mess. Let's go to bed and do this properly."

He goes ahead of me, and I take two minutes to tidy up the empty food containers and beer bottles, and turn off the lights and head for the bedroom, my heart beating loudly in my ears.

House has already shed his dirty clothes and is stretched out on the bed, stroking himself, and damned if that doesn't make for the most erotic sight I've ever laid eyes on.

He watches me as I throw my clothes on the floor with his, and I'm tempted to just stay where I am and watch him, but I end up crawling on the bed and enveloping him in my mouth.

In minutes, he's cradling my head and trying to pull me upwards, so I comply and slide up his body.

I reach over to the bedside table for the lubricant and condoms and watch as House rolls his eyes at me when I pass him the foil packet.

"Will this hurt your leg?" I ask, warily.

"Wilson," he growls, "If you do it right, and if you do it _now_ I'll forget that I even _have _legs."

I smile, then straddle him, kissing him as I slowly ease myself down on his cock, taking the time my body needs to adjust to him.

It's unlike anything I've ever experienced.

I start rocking slowly, and grab my own throbbing cock in my hand, and pretty soon my movements are rough, jerky and House's hands find their way to my hips and co-ordinates the movements that way.

As he bucks beneath me and calls out my name, it's all it takes for me and I come powerfully, shuddering and gasping.

I lower my head to his and kiss him again, slowly, deeply until our hearts have stopped trying to burst out of our chests.

I roll off and over to my designated side of the bed, facing away from House, lest I breathe on him again.

God forbid.

Still, I can't help but grin as he turns towards me and wraps his arm around me.

*~*~*~*~

Sometime during the night, House steals the covers.

He's rolled over the other way, taking all the blankets with him and cocooning himself.

I lay there shivering for a few minutes, then get up to use the bathroom.

When I come back, he's sprawled out in the middle of the bed.

Figures.

I take a minute to just watch him sleep, his one arm thrown up over his head and his leg sticking out of the covers.

I don't want to wake him, so I take a blanket out of the closet, grab my pillow, and make my way to the couch.

After spending last night, and part of this night, in bed with House, the couch seems cold and lonely.

It's no match for my exhaustion though, and soon I'm asleep once more.

I'm dreaming of goats, for some weird reason.

Goats with sharp, cloven hooves that are kicking me, hard, in the stomach.

I rub a weary hand over my face and realize that there are no kicking goats in House's apartment.

There is however, a somewhat disgruntled House jabbing me in the gut with his cane.

"Wha?" I ask tiredly.

"What are you doing out here?" he demands.

I sit halfway up. "I _was_ sleeping. How silly of me."

"Why aren't you in bed?"

"You took all the covers. And the bed."

"Get back in bed." An order.

I lay back down.

"It's okay. I can sleep here. Go back to sleep."

A poke with the cane again.

"I said get back in bed." His tone suggests there is no arguing.

I sigh heavily, then sit up again.

"What does it matter where I sleep?" I challenge, wondering if he's actually going to admit that he wants me near him.

"It doesn't," House says defiantly, then adds, softer now, "Just come back to bed."

We look at each other in the dim light of the living room, then I get up.

He stands in my way and makes me take the long way around the couch, he follows close on my heels.

"Don't forget your pillow." House says when I'm midway behind the couch.

As I reach over the back of the couch to get it, I feel warm hands on my hips and his erection pressing firmly against my ass.

A sharp intake of my breath, and my body responds instantly to his, pushing back and I spread my feet apart to allow him to thrust inside.

He keeps one hand on my hips, possessive-like, and the other one on my shoulder, pulling me towards him.

"House." I groan, my head down and my eyes tightly shut.

House moans something in response, and as expected, his words incite something deep inside of me.

Faster, harder, deeper, we both move together and cry out incoherent words of pleasure as we reach orgasm at the same moment.

Each time with House seems to be better and better.

Only, I know that can't continue forever and the thought is bittersweet, so I push it from my mind and enjoy the heavy feeling of his naked body pressed against mine as he regains his composure and his breathing slows.

"Bed." he orders again, and I follow, grinning like a fool in the dark.

*~*~*~*~

I wake up before House (no surprises) and take a few minutes to stretch, admiring House's sleeping body in the sunlight that's now streaming through the window.

I get up quietly, careful not to wake him and head for the shower.

I've got shampoo in my hair when I feel cool air against my skin as House pulls back the shower curtain and steps inside with me.

As I stand under the hot water, rinsing my hair, he's pooling body wash in his palm and then sliding it over my cock.

I arch into his touch, then pull him closer and we kiss.

The steam from the shower seems even hotter now, and I run my hands through his hair, enjoying how it starts to dampen and curl at the nape of his neck.

We grasp each other and stroke fiercely, our tongues mashing together in the same rhythm.

Mere breathless moments later, I exit the shower and towel dry, getting dressed wearing the same goofy grin as last night as I hear House singing loudly in the shower.

**_I remember every little thing  
As if it happened only yesterday  
Parking by the lake  
And there was not another car in sight  
And I never had a girl  
Looking any better than you did  
And all the kids at school  
They were wishing they were me that night_**

While House is still in the shower, I roam around the bedroom, making quick work of piling the laundry up to drop off while we're out.

I make breakfast while he's getting dressed.

He limps into the kitchen and sits at his usual seat, looking with appreciation at the feast: banana-chocolate-chip pancakes, and bacon, and coffee.

I'm ravenously hungry this morning, so much so that I have to swat House's hand away when he reaches across the table to snag a strip of bacon.

"If you want more nights like last night," I say, waving the bacon at him, "I'm going to need to keep my energy levels up."

Much to my surprise, House pushes his plate towards me, still half a pancake on it.

"Eat up."

We finish breakfast and I do the dishes while House does whatever it is House does when he's avoiding having to help with housework.

I'm feeling pretty good though, and I don't mind having to do it by myself.

I grab all the clothes still lying around the kitchen, making special note to tell the dry cleaners about the coffee stain on House's (supposedly) favourite shirt, tidy up the table and put everything in it's place.

"So," I say, trying to juggle the laundry bags and my keys, "Shoes?"

House nods and walks out the door.

"If you're nice, and by nice I mean if you blow me in the backseat, I'll let you buy me lunch."

I raise my eyebrows and pull the door closed behind me.

"You're too kind."

*~*~*~*~

First stop is the dry cleaners.

As House waits in the car, I take the bag of dirty laundry inside.

I have a momentary panic attack wondering what the attendant will think about all the semen stains on the bedsheets. From there, I wonder if it's commonplace for House's sheets to be so....dirty.

And then I can feel the familiar heat of embarrassment creep up to colour my cheeks when I think of the mess we have in our pants from last night.

What have I gotten myself into?

Anyway, I drop off the laundry, take my claim check and head back for the car.

House is singing again, along with the radio this time, and I realize how nice his voice is.

He's so musically talented that he could consider that as a career should he ever tire of medicine. I tell him as much.

He turns to face me, reclined against the head rest, those blue eyes pleading.

"And would you be my groupie?"

I make a non-committal sound, but the truth of the matter is, I absolutely would.

We pull up outside Jersey Gardens, which is not a garden at all, but a Nike outlet shop that House likes to frequent, and I manage to find a decent parking spot without having to resort to the handicapped space.

Shopping for shoes with House, I soon realize, is like clothes shopping with any one of my ex-wives.

The only thing that's lacking is that I don't have to hold a purse.

I do, however, get to hold House's cane while he laces up his fifteenth pair of shoes.

He has to try them on, walk around the store three times to test for comfort, then check out his reflection five different ways before sitting down and deciding he doesn't quite like the way the laces tie.

Apparently, House's behaviour is normal, or at least expected by the staff, for they pay him no notice unless he needs their assistance for more shoes.

After I'm certain he's tried on every available pair of twelve and a halfs in the store, he finally decides on a pair that, incredibly, look _exactly_ like the pair he's set out to replace.

"Why didn't you just choose those in the first place?" I ask with the exasperated air of one who's been waiting entirely too long.

He shoots me a sideways glare, "You can never be too careful when selecting shoes."

"Says he who has his shirt on inside out."

Not even deigning to look embarrassed, House simply shrugs, "It's all about the fashion."

Fashion.

Right.

I always think about fashion when I think about House.

The two are synonymous.

*~*~*~*~

I don't give House a blow job in the backseat, even though he's already asked twice.

But I do buy him lunch though, before we head out to the market.

"Can't you just drop me at home?" he whines petulantly, "I really hate grocery shopping."

"You like to eat, though, " I remind him, "And besides, I put up with shoe shopping, the very least you can do is shop for groceries with me."

House pulls a face before replying, "Yeah, but shoe shopping is _fun._"

We park the car and begin walking towards the store when House says, "Have you ever wondered why it's called a blow job?"

This is my first warning that it might be better to just leave him in the car.

Pocketing my keys and taking out my list, I shake my head, "No, not really, House."

"I mean," he continues, looking thoughtful and shaking out two Vicodin into his palm, "There really isn't a lot of _blowing_ involved. Maybe it should be called a suck job?"

"Doesn't have the same ring to it, I guess," I say, concentrating on my grocery list instead of House's musings, interesting enough as they are, "Don't let me forget the buttermilk."

Once in the store, I take a cart and begin looking for the food we'll need for this week.

House immediately takes the cart from me, hooks his cane over the push-bar, then proceeds to ride the cart like a scooter. He pushes it with one foot, then hops up onto the storage rack underneath the cart.

Child.

Fortunately, he doesn't get very far, when I'm able to retrieve the cart back and hiss at him to behave. Like that's going to work.

As I'm picking out lemons, he starts juggling lychee fruit.

"What the hell are these things anyway?"

"Lychees." I sigh, depositing my lemons and moving on to the vegetables.

He peels the outer layer and discards it on the floor.

House throws the lychee up into the air, then catches it in his open mouth.

He makes a face while he's chewing, "Tastes kind of like an eyeball."

"And you would know."

"Actually, I would. Lamb's eyeballs are considered a delicacy in Hungary. Only, I suspect these lychee things have a sweeter flavour."

I shudder and bag a few of the lychee, determined to prove to House that they can, and do taste good. Maybe I'll make him a lychee martini tonight...

"Dear god," he says now, picking up a handful of fiddleheads, "What are _these?_"

"House," I say after mentally counting to ten, "Let's get out of the produce section."

Bad idea, apparently.

As we're wandering down aisles, with me looking to complete my list (coriander, fennel and ginger are next) House spies the Macadamia nuts I need for pancakes.

He carelessly tosses two bags into the cart, right on top of the whole-wheat-flax bread.

I'm lost in thought as I survey the endless racks of spices before me, when I hear him rip open another bag and start munching away.

With his mouth full, he turns to me and says, "Wilson, want to taste my nuts?"

The lady pushing her cart next to me, stares at me with her mouth open.

"Tourettes," I explain with a heavy sigh, "He can't help what he says."

She gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me (who would?) and walks away quickly.

"Stop it." I say uselessly. I know he won't.

The next aisle over, House is still working on his Macadamia nuts.

This time, however, he brings the bag to his nose and sniffs carefully, then eats another one, looking pensive.

"Wilson? Do my nuts taste funny?" he deadpans.

I turn to him and glare.

"I'll let you know the next time I'm down there," I whisper urgently, "Which is going to be _never_ if you don't cut it out!"

House puts his hands in the air, looking for all the world the innocent victim.

"I meant these Macadamia nuts," he says, rolling his eyes, "Did you think I meant-? Wilson! Get your mind out of the gutter! Two nights with me and you've turned into a raging nymphomaniac!"

Then he grins wickedly, "I like it."

Thankfully, though, he must've taken my threat seriously, for the rest of the shopping is spent in relative quiet, the only minor scuffle being a heated discussion about the merits of parchment paper versus waxed paper.

In the end, he obviously realizes he's out of his depth and defers to my more qualified opinion, and when all is said and done, it's been an...._entertaining_ afternoon if nothing else.

*~*~*~*~

Not surprisingly, House limps into the apartment on his own, leaving me to lug in bag after bag of groceries and laundry. I don't even bother asking for help anymore.

He flops himself down on the couch and reaches for the remote as I start putting the groceries away.

As I'm putting eggs, yogurt and imported cheese away in the fridge, I realize...

I've forgotten the buttermilk.


End file.
